Candid
by paperfires
Summary: She's small and lonely. He's big and lost. If one can help the other, who's to say there's no such thing as happy endings?
1. Purple Car Count

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel or any of its property (aside from an Iron Man key chain).

* * *

"Hey, Mister, mind if I took your picture?" a voice quietly asked him.

He'd seen the girl here before; a rather average looking twenty-something year old who mostly kept to herself. She never started a conversation and only really seemed to speak to order her coffee. She always took the small corner table, only two tables from his own usual spot, and would fiddle with her laptop as she sipped her drink.

There wasn't anything particularly special about her compared to other women he'd seen and met. Her hair was a simple one tone brown that made Steve think of chocolate. It was always plaited in a short braid that just reached the top of her shoulder blades, and her forehead was hidden by straight cut bangs. She wore rectangular black rimmed glasses and seemed to use little or no makeup. But the petite woman who could have been no more than 5'4" had managed to pique his interest. So he subtly watched her, ignoring the part of him that said what he was doing was inappropriate and creepy.

So when she walked up to his table, three months since he first noticed her, he immediately assumed she'd caught him and was about to get an earful. Instead, she asked a question.

"Uh, may I ask why?"

"Yes you may." He gave a small smile at her quick reply.

"Why do you want to take my picture?"

"Well, with the light coming in from the window, and the general setting of this café, I thought I could get a few good shots." Steve nodded and considered her request.

"Alright, but only if you do something for me."

"What exactly would I be doing?"

"Um… sitting still for maybe twenty minutes," he answered, though it almost sounded like a question.

"I see. And what will_ you_ be doing?"

"Drawing you." He motioned to his sketch book that sat closed on the table.

"Fair enough, portrait for a portrait. So you're in?"

"Yes, Ma'am." She grinned and dropped her knapsack onto the ground by the table leg, and then slipped the small messenger bag off her shoulder and placed it on the table. He watched as she pulled out a camera and a small lens, switching it with the one that was already on the camera. When she finished adjusting things on the camera and pointed it in his direction, Steve suddenly felt flustered.

"Wha– what do I do?" A reassuring smile was sent his way.

"Not much, just sit there and look pretty." He didn't feel any less nervous and the brunette seemed to notice. "Okay, why not look out the window and count how many purple cars pass by?" He did as he was told and kept a look out for any purple automobiles.

He resisted the urge to face her when he heard a shutter going off and kept his gaze on the snow covered street outside. Several snaps later he decided to fill the mostly-silence.

"Purple car count, nil."

"Sure? I saw like ten on my way here." Another snap.

"Yeah, but there was a van with purple lettering on it; does that count?"

"No, and I said cars, not vans. Take a sip of your coffee please?"

"While looking out the window?"

"You can look wherever you want." He decided to point his eyes toward the pastry display. Two snaps in quick succession.

"How many are you taking?"

"One more," she replied absently. "Look at the camera." He saw her leaning backward slightly, an elbow braced at her hip, one eye closed, the other looking through the eyepiece. He smiled and then heard a snap. She took a seat across from him and he deduced that she was looking over the photos. "Sweet, thanks…" she abruptly returned to the shy girl he'd been observing, her professional front gone and replaced with a bumbling and uneasy character. She seemed just as bad as he usually was with women. And then Steve realized quite belatedly that _she_ was a woman.

"Uh… no problem. Oh, I forgot to ask your name, Miss."

"Melinda. Mel for short." Mel met his eyes briefly and then looked away. They sat in an awkward silence, Steve periodically drinking his coffee, and Mel focusing on putting her equipment away. When Steve finally felt that anymore silence would cause something to implode, _We're Off to See the Wizard_ from The Wizard of Oz began to play. Mel smiled sheepishly and retrieved a black rectangular object from her pocket and began to speak into it.

"Hi, Jack. Already? Okay, I'll there in fifteen minutes."

"Everything alright?" Steve asked when she slung her bags onto her shoulders.

"Yeah, some clients at work came in early so I have to get going." She paused before adding, "Thanks for, um, you know." She gestured to the camera bag.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

"So long as there aren't any asteroids headed here," she joked with a small smile.

"See you tomorrow then, Mel," he chuckled.

"Bye, Steve."

0-0

"You look happy, Cap."

"Something wrong with that, Stark?" the super-soldier snapped, immediately on the defensive and wondering why on Earth he let them convince him to move into Stark Tower.

"No, not at all. I'm just wondering what's got you in such a good mood. Care to share?"

"No." Steve quickly left the room, a glass of apple juice in-hand, before Tony could irritate him any further.

Tony turned to Bruce, who was reading a newspaper.

"Think it's a girl?"

"Could be. And don't meddle Tony," the scientist added seeing the other man's expression.

"Me? Never."

0-0

She walked in at exactly 7:30AM, just as she always did, and went up to the counter to order her coffee. Instead of taking her usual corner table, she walked straight to his table and sat down, stowing her bags by her feet.

"Morning, Steve," she greeted quietly.

"Morning, Mel." He noticed she also had a paper bag with her today along with her coffee. She reached into it, pulled out a muffin, and silently offered it to him. "Thanks," he said and bit into it, not really questioning the random muffin gift. It was chocolate chip– his favourite. She reached into the bag again and took out a bagel and a packet of cream cheese. After quickly spreading the cheese onto the two bagel slices, she practically inhaled them. She stopped halfway through the second when she spotted him staring at her with a half-grin.

"Sorry, didn't mean to gross you out, I probably look like some starved animal eating its first meal in days."

"Don't worry about it. It's nice to see a gal who doesn't seem to starve herself." He thought back to the times he'd seen women in this time eat, and always noted that there wasn't much on their plates.

"I could never go on a diet; I eat like four times a day and then still want dessert before bed." She finished off the bagel and to his surprise pulled out another from the brown paper bag. "Want half?"

"Sure." She handed it to him and slid a packet of cream cheese and a knife across the table to him. "You don't want any?"

"It's cinnamon raisin, which I prefer without cheese," she replied and then took a large bite of the bagel. Steve on the other hand took the time to spread a thick layer of cream cheese onto his slice before devouring it.

"Well," he began hesitantly, "When do I get to draw you?"

"Now, if you want."

Steve opened his sketch book to a blank page and picked up his pencil. Mel shifted awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with herself. She settled on taking out her BlackBerry and playing solitaire.

"So," she said, uncharacteristically being the first to speak, "You from New York?"

"Yeah, this city's home for me." _Or at least it was_, he thought. "What about you?"

"Nope, moved here a few months ago." Steve lifted his eyes from his sketch to look at her.

"Where from?"

"Here, there, pretty much everywhere, most recently D.C."

"You moved a lot?" he asked and continued the outline of her hair, braided and peaking over her shoulder.

"Yeah, but when I was old enough to live on my own I settled down in D.C…. sort of. I had a friend there who let me room with her for a few years."

"What did you do there? College? University?"

"Not really, I managed to get a couple degrees. Somehow. You?"

"I studied fine arts for a bit before I joined the army." He wasn't sure how much of his real life he could use. He definitely couldn't tell her about the serum or that he was Captain America, but he never really warmed to the idea of lying to people about himself. Natasha and Clint had given him some tips about keeping a secret identity, but it still meant lying to some extent, and Steve didn't like discrediting human relations by doing that. Even if the world around him was already running that race.

"Hmm… Military," she mused. "You look the part," she added mostly to herself, though he heard it and blushed faintly. "Are you still with them?"

"Ah, no, not really. I'm a government consultant now." She could tell the subject was making him uncomfortable (and she being very familiar with uncomfortable turns in conversation) so she changed the subject, whether subtly or not-so-subtly she didn't quite care.

"I have your photos, want to see them?" He nodded but continued his drawing. He was trying to get her nose right, but couldn't seem to get it. An envelope was tossed onto his sketch pad, easily disrupting his concentration.

Steve opened the envelope and found three 5x7inch photos of himself inside.

"I'm certain you took more than three photos."

"I did, but these three were the best. The others didn't meet my standards." The first was of him looking out the window watching for purple cars, but in the single photo he looked to be thinking deeply about something. It was taken from a low angle, and though Steve didn't know much about photography, he thought it was a good picture. The next showed him drinking from his mug, the front window and the street outside it as a soft background.

"Purple car count– one." He pointed to a violet sedan (that was leaning more toward being a smudge than a car) nosing into the shot and was rewarded with a smile. The last photo was when she told him to look at the camera. Each pictured showed clearly the warmth and glow of the café. "They're really good," he said and pushed the pictures toward her, only to have them pushed right back. He looked at her quizzically.

"Let's call it an early Christmas present."

"But you paid to develop them, they're yours." He slid them back toward her.

"First of all, I used a digital camera, so no film was used. Second, I didn't pay to print them. I work at a photo portrait studio and get to print as many photos as I want and it doesn't cost me a penny." She pushed them back again.

"You took the photos therefore they are your creations and are _yours_." He punctuated his sentence by shoving them to her fingertips.

Mel sighed in exasperation and took the photos, though she couldn't help but smile a little on the inside. She tucked the photos into the envelope and then sealed it with a quick lick to the edge of the flap. Grabbing Steve's pencil she scribbled something onto the back and then, rather formally, held her arm out, the envelope once more being given to Steve.

Steve quirked a brow and took the envelope. On it, in messy writing, was written:

_To Steve, From Mel_

_Merry Early X-mas_

"Mel, you can keep them, seriously." She suddenly developed a devious look that did not fit with the image of the shy girl he'd seen before.

"I get it, you don't like the photos…" she said miserably, frowned with the slightest of pouts, and trained her gaze on the floor. Steve immediately backtracked and tried to amend the situation. A small part of him knew that she was toying with him, but the larger part fell back on his usual ineptness with the opposite sex.

"N-no! They're amazing, there's absolutely nothing wrong with them! It's just… I mean I… it wouldn't… You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he sighed.

"Just a bit," she admitted with a tiny grin. "We could try a compromise."

"Better than this endless back and forth."

"You keep two photos, I keep one."

"How 'bout I keep one photo and you keep the other two." She stared at him for a long moment.

"Fine, I'm not going to get any closer than that, am I?" Steve shook his head 'no'. She plucked two photos from the envelope after tearing it open. Once the photo of Steve smiling nervously and of him drinking his coffee were safely put away in her bag, they fell into a mostly-comfortable silence– Steve continuing his sketch, and Mel starting another round of solitaire. When a wall clock chimed nine o'clock, Mel had to go, to the displeasure of Steve who still hadn't gotten her nose right.

"See ya, Steve."

"Bye, Mel." It never occurred to him to call her 'Ma'am' now that he knew her name. Even without counting his time in the ice he figured he was older than her. He could call her 'Miss', but he doubted she would like that. No, if he was going to even try to fit in, at least a little, in this strange world, he would have to adapt to a few changes.

He hoped that maybe Mel could help him with that.


	2. Lightning Toasted Pop-Tarts

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel. Sigh.

* * *

Steve and Mel had sat together every day since she first asked to take his picture. Sometimes they talked, sometimes the simply enjoyed each other's company in silence. Steve had since drawn more sketches of Mel, her nose always being a trouble spot for him. Mel would snap a few photos of him now and again, different angles, lenses, filters… She tried to explain what she was doing once to him, but the poor man was lost three words in. It seemed that Mel was a textbook reciter when it came to explaining such things.

Their morning rendezvous were ingrained into their daily lives now, and both looked forward to it before getting into bed every night. They developed several unspoken understandings between them. Of the more unimportant rituals, Steve would buy them an assortment of muffins every second day, and in between those days Mel would buy them bagels. But what both really enjoyed was the comfort zone they'd found together. Neither pushed when it was clear the other didn't want to talk about or do something.

Mel didn't question why he didn't always get the references she made, his lack of knowledge of many things from the past few decades, or anything that made him different the way he was. In return, Steve allowed Mel to keep to her quiet ways, letting her nod or shake her head instead of replying with a yes or no, reading her body language more than he would someone else to garner further understanding about what she was thinking. Sure she responded verbally the majority of the time, but the truth of her opinions and thoughts were hidden in her myriad of miniscule (or not-so-miniscule) habits.

When she was interested in something he was saying, she would lean forward a little in her seat and look at him more often. When she disagreed with something, a single wrinkle would form between her eyebrows as if to furrow together, but stopping prematurely. Steve picked up on the countless little quirks of hers, and discovered new ones every day.

"Film photography's great, but the rolls are a bit expensive, and a lot of the time it's just more convenient to shoot with digital," she explained in her usual soft voice.

"So it's pretty much extinct," Steve sighed; yet another thing from his time that had disappeared.

"No, not quite, there are still plenty of people out there who only use film. Digital photography is only about 30 years old, still relatively young compared to the entirety of photography history, and at the start digital wasn't very popular. Even I've still got a few film cameras at home."

"Do you ever use them?"

"Sometimes, only for personal use though. Depending on what Jack has me shooting for work, I might take thousands of photos, in which case digital is definitely the better option."

Steve blinked. "Thousands?"

"Wedding photos usually," she replied simply. "I still end up taking lots of photos anyway though. For every one good photo I take, generally there are five bad ones standing behind it, and clients like to have many, many photos to choose from, especially when it comes to weddings."

"Which is why you hate editing," he stated remembering her gripe about exactly that. She nodded, and then turned her laptop so he could see the screen.

"Pick." She'd had him do this multiple times, deciding which one was the best between two photos.

"Why do you want my opinion?" he had asked the first time she had him choose.

"I've studied photography. I see little technicalities that might make the photo have better composition but not necessarily making it a better photo. You on the other hand don't know anything about that sort of technique and will choose based solely on visual aesthetic."

"This one's too shadowed," he pointed to the image on the right. "It makes them look a bit too evil for a family portrait on a Christmas card." Her head bobbed and she went back to work.

Ten minutes later she gave out a frustrated sigh and closed the turquoise computer. She blew a raspberry and then looked to Steve, who was watching her with an amused smile.

"I think my eyes are going to bleed if I have to stare at that screen for another second."

"Don't get blood on the table."

"Ha-ha. I have some errands to run. What to come?" Her words were easy, but the hem of her shirt that was getting rumpled and then smoothed out in an endless cycle gave away her unease. They'd never been outside the cafe together.

"Don't you have work?"

"No clients today. So…?"

"Sure." They stood up and Mel swung her bag on. "No camera?"

"Left my usual one at home, but," she reached into her coat pocket, "I don't generally go anywhere without some sort of photography device." A red camera that was much smaller than the one she normally carried and looked simpler to use. Sort of.

"So where are we going?" Steve asked after walking in silence for a while.

"Grocery shopping, my kitchen – and the rest of my apartment – is completely devoid of food. I have maybe, half a cup of uncooked rice and some stale gram crackers."

"How have you not starved yet?" Steve teased.

"Don't know, but if I put this off any longer I won't be showing up at the coffee shop anymore." She said it with a smile and half a giggle– a joke. Yet the thought of not seeing her again brought a cold feeling to his insides.

They went to a local grocery store, for which Steve was glad. Larger shopping centers he still refused to go near. It seemed Mel felt the same, though most likely for different reasons.

Shopping with Mel was… simple. She knew exactly what she wanted to get, and when she couldn't decide between two products she easily solved the matter by picking the cheaper one. He imagined that shopping with a woman would be much more of a hassle. Even with his own mother, before the Depression had hit, he remembered her fussing over what type of bread to get. It turns out she was easygoing with everything, not just when relaxing at a coffee shop. She said an almost inaudible 'thank you' to the cashier and then dropped the change into a children's hospital donation box.

Steve and Mel left the store less than an hour after going in and headed toward Mel's apartment, Steve insisting that he carry all four plastic bags. They walked seven blocks filling the quiet with chatter about the weather, current events, and Mel complaining about cold hands.

Soon enough they entered the apartment complex and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

"Aren't your arms tired from carrying those?" Mel asked as she scavenged her bag for a key.

"No, I'm fine," he replied truthfully. He wasn't a super soldier if he couldn't carry a few bags.

"It's not much, but I don't need much." She said and opened the door, motioning for him to enter. Mel wasn't kidding when she said it wasn't much. The kitchen was cramped and the living room mostly unfurnished. Two doors were open and he could see her bedroom and a bathroom. But despite the lack of furniture and smallness of it, there was something calming and just… _Mel_ about the place. There was no bookcase so there were piles of books and binders in one corner by the television, which sat on a two foot high table. Several cushions were placed around a circular table that came up to mid shin on him. He noted the absence of a couch.

Mel took him to the kitchen where he set the bags onto the countertop and began removing the items along with Mel. He paused, realizing he had no idea where anything went. Seeing this, Mel shoved the bag of frozens into his arms.

"Into the freezer, please," she instructed. Finding a place to put the frozen food items wasn't hard, there only being a tray of ice cubes in the freezer.

With his task completed, Steve stood back and watched as Mel moved around the small space with ease, knowingly placing everything where it should be, once taking a moment to remember which self was for bread and which was for rice.

"Right, next errand: replying to my family's emails." Steve couldn't help but laugh at the dread on her face. "Not funny! Mum's convinced that I'm going to get mugged and then killed in New York and is trying to convince me to move back home. My dad sent me pepper spray and a note saying 'not strictly for emergency use', my brothers want me to send them cake, and my sister wants me to make out with at least one of the Avengers." At the last one Steve froze and his cheeks went more than slightly red.

"She what?"

"I've consistently told her 'no' for the past two months."

"Um, so what are you doing for the holidays?" His hasty subject change was noted by the brunette.

"I might go home, not sure though. Family can be a bit of a handful; there are also the aunts, uncles, and whatnot that come too, so it's just that much more chaos added to the mix."

"You haven't decided yet?" Christmas was fast approaching, barely a week to go, and even the Avengers had plans ready.

"I don't always go, usually I decide with a coin flip." He looked at her oddly. "I know this will make me sound bad, but going back to my family makes me nervous after I haven't seen them for a while, and when I get there, there isn't really a quiet place where I can calm down and just breathe. I love my family, but they're loud and I'm… not."

"I think I understand that," Steve said, remembering feeling out of place at Stark's parties.

Meanwhile, Mel was wondering with horror why she was giving away one of her deepest insecurities to a man she'd met only a week and a half before. Even if it was only the surface of it, the fact that she had told Steve anything at all was rather unnerving for her. Mel was a very private person, even with those she knew and trusted. She barely knew Steve, and was he really trustworthy? So far everything he did said yes. But really she didn't know.

They were drawn from their thoughts by the sound of nyan cat filling their ears. Steve fumbled for his phone (after belatedly realizing that it was in fact _his_ phone that was the source of the noise) and answered it.

"_Come to the tower._"

"Why?"

"_Thor is drunk and is toasting poptarts with lightning, Bruce hulked out, Natasha and Clint are putting feathers in my hair while I'm strapped to a chair. I think it would be best if you came and put an end to the madness. I like madness and all, but–_"

"Tony, are you serious or are you drunk?"

"_No, I am not. But seriously, get down here before my tower– Hey, Coulson! No, I will not give you the ph–"_

"Tony?"

"_Coulson here, meeting at the tower. Now._"

"I'll be right there." The agent hung up without another word.

"I'm not sure whether I should tease you about your ringtone or question as to why you have a friend who gets drunk before noon."

"No need for either. I have to go, see you tomorrow?"

"Yep." She smiled at him and shooed him away as she booted up her laptop.

0-0

With everyone finally gathered in the den (somehow Tony was the last to arrive despite the fact that he _lived_ in the building permanently), Coulson brought up the topic of their meeting.

"The media's digging for material on the Avengers and so they've resorted to making up interviews and such to give to the public who still have very little information about the Avengers." The team stared at Coulson blankly.

"Let me get this straight. Fury is worried about false media?"

"Stark, depending on how far this goes, it could end very badly. For example, a man impersonated Captain America and did an interview on a small local news station. One month later he was attacked and was put in hospital."

"Who attacked him?" Steve asked immediately.

"An anti-america gang of some sort. The point is, from now on you'll be having regular media encounters, either by way of press conferences, television interviews, or something else."

Natasha was the first to speak against it. "Do we have to?" If she weren't a lethal assassin and wasn't glaring at Coulson with narrowed eyes, Steve would have thought the question funny.

"Yes, direct orders from Fury. He wants to get a handle on this before it spins out of control."

"So our first outing will be what?" Tony asked looking bored.

"A photo shoot, the photos will then be distributed by SHIELD's media containment department to the more trustworthy magazines, newspapers, and websites. Details will be sent via email. You're free to go."

* * *

A/N: You can all see where the next chapter is headed, right?


	3. Star-Spangled Surprise

The next day, after having breakfast, Steve and Mel went to Mel's apartment. Mel had editing to do and no clients, so she figured they might as well camp out in her living room for the day. Steve wondered if he should ask Mel what to expect at a photo shoot, the one scheduled for the Avengers was in a week, but it would probably be weird if he suddenly started grilling her with questions about that. He decided not interrogate subtly either. It didn't seem right to do that to a friend.

"So how'd the family emails go?" he asked instead. He was on his stomach, sketching her messy corner of books, binders, loose paper, and other paper resources. Steve planned on getting her a bookcase, maybe for Christmas.

"Well, I checked this morning and haven't received any replies yet–" She huffed in a way that was distinctly exasperated before continuing. "Spoke too soon, the siblings have responded."

"And what do they have to say?"

"They sent one conjoined email, basically detailing their holiday wish list."

"Anything unreasonable?" It was amazing how difficult shading book stacks could be.

"Ren wants his sweater back, Tristan wants cake, and Vi wants me to find her a boyfriend."

"You stole your brother's sweater?"

"I prefer 'borrowed without permission', and I'm surprised that it's taken him two years to notice that I did. And no, I'm not giving it back."

"Are you going to get your sister a fella?" Steve was glad she'd gotten used to his 'old people speak' as Tony put it. His team still made fun of him for it whenever they could.

"Considering I can barely make regular friends, let alone find _myself_ a guy, I'm not going to be finding one for her anytime soon."

"Hey, you made me your friend pretty easily, and I'm of the male variety." He looked up to watch her expressions.

"Yeah but you're… you. And it was _not_ easy trying to approach you. I nearly peed myself asking to take your picture." He couldn't help but laugh at the blush that spread across her pale cheeks. "Shut up," she muttered, a smile making its way to her lips despite her embarrassment. "You have any holiday plans?"

"Not really. My friend's having a Christmas party on the 23rd."  
"And the actual day?"

"Sitting around bored at my apartment." The rest of the Avengers were going their separate ways for the holiday. Each had someone to go back to, leaving their Captain alone. Steve didn't mind, it was good that his team got away from this life for a while, a bit of normal would do them some good.

The apartment phone rang and Mel bounced up to answer it, stumbling over a cushion and then hopping over Steve's legs.

"Hello?"

"_You haven't called in weeks and all I get is 'hello'?_" a feminine voice shouted through the phone.

"Salutations, mother. I am honoured to have received telecommunication from your greatness." Steve chuckled quietly on the floor.

"_My children are impossible._"

"We try."

"_So are you coming home this year? Spot misses you._"

"And the rest of you don't?"  
"_Of course we do. Though your brothers miss you more for your cake, I think."_

"Tristan requested red velvet."

"_Could you bring some? I happen to like that kind too._"

"Mum, I think I'm going to stay in New York this year."

"_But you missed last year, and we haven't seen you since July._"

"I know, but I can't afford to fly up there and I don't particularly like driving for seven hours in the middle of winter." Mel had been avoiding family get-togethers for a while, successfully worming her way out of any for the past five months.

"_Honey, you shouldn't spend Christmas alone_."

"I won't be alone. I think I'll keep a friend company." She glanced at Steve who was trying his best not to look like he was eavesdropping. It wasn't his fault that his enhanced hearing let him hear both ends of the conversation.

"_Alright, but you're welcome home anytime._"

"I know, say hi to dad for me?"

"_I will, love you_."

"Bye." The call ended with a _click_ and Mel realized she would be spending Christmas with Steve.

"Seven hour drive?"

"Most of my family live in Montréal."

"Isn't that in Canada?"  
"Yep." A light bulb turned on in Steve's head.

"You're Canadian!" She blinked at him.

"Problem?" she questioned and sat back down.

"No! Not at all, I just thought… I've met–" He looked back up at her and the look on her face told him to stop talking.

"I'm not offended, if that's what you're thinking."

"Sorry, I suppose I just assume everyone living in America is an American."

"Well, technically I am too." She continued at Steve's confused expression (which she found rather adorable). "Dual-citizenship. I was born here in New York."

And so she told him her story of how she'd lived in Brooklyn until she was five and then her parents were killed in a car accident. Millie and Sean Bleu, close friends of her parents, had taken her in as their own child and they became her family.

"So you're adopted?" She nodded. Mel wondered again why it was so easy to talk to Steve. She couldn't even carry a regular conversation with other people, let alone one about her being adopted. But the talk was easy and Mel didn't feel the need to run and hide in her room.

0-0

For a week Steve worried about the impending photo shoot. He of course hadn't said a word to Mel about it. Since their first meeting, he had kept his life as an Avenger hidden from her. He wasn't sure how he would tell her, but he knew he should. Steve understood that opening up to people was hard for Mel, but she had with him by telling him a bit about her odd family. She deserved a little honesty. Though how does one go about telling their friend that they're Captain America? He wasn't keen on blurting it out, but he couldn't think of a way to do it tactfully. She would find out eventually, he knew. If Fury was actually serious about getting the Avengers more press time, well, Steve would have to explain sooner or later.

"Everything alright, Steve?" He was broken out of his thoughts by Mel's voice. He looked up from his sketch to see hazel eyes which voiced her worry better than her words did.

"Yeah, why?"

"You seem kind of… anxious lately." Was he really that bad at hiding how he was feeling?

"I'm fine, don't worry." He gave her a reassuring smile and went back to his drawing. It was another one of Mel.

"Fine, don't tell me." She checked her watch and then got up, pulling her red pompomed hat onto her head.

"You're leaving?" It was barely eight yet.

"Unfortunately, yes. And while I'd much rather be here, I do in fact need money and therefore must go to work." She gave a small dramatic sigh. "You can have the rest of my bagels. I won't have time to finish them. Bye, Steve." Before he could reply she was out the door, leaving him alone in the café.

0-0

The photo shoot was scheduled for ten at a place called Tintype. Driving anywhere in Manhattan could be rather frustrating, so Steve opted to walk the six blocks from the café. He was edgy enough as it was. He'd done films and shows promoting bonds back during the war, but he had always felt awkward and embarrassed doing that. He wasn't excited to feel like that again. He wondered if this would be anything like when Mel took his picture. He generally didn't have to do much, smile sometimes, step more to the left or right, simple things that Mel said made the picture better. He wished that she would be the one standing behind the camera, though he didn't think she'd do too well against the rather rambunctious superhero team.

He met up with Clint and Natasha in the lobby and the three of them went up five floors in the elevator to the studio. Upon reaching the sixth floor of the building, they were met with a warm toned reception area. A sign on a wall read _Tintype Photo Studio_.In sleek black frames littering the walls were various photos of people and places that Steve assumed were taken by Tintype photographers.

The last three Avengers were already there, talking to a man who looked to be in his mid fifties.

"Capsicle, bird brain, Natalie, meet Mr. Daniels." He paused to snicker at something before continuing the introductions. "Mr. Daniels, meet Steve Rogers– Boy Scout extraordinaire, Clint Barton– male Katniss, and Natalie Rushman– careful with this one, she can kill you with her thighs." He motioned to each of them in turn.

"Pleasure to meet you," Daniels said and shook each of their hands. "Agent Coulson came by earlier and gave us some instructions along with outfits SHIELD would like you to wear. They're just through that door along with change rooms. Captain Rogers, Dr. Banner, Agent Romanoff, and Agent Barton, if you could put on the outfits on rack one, that'd be great. Mr. Stark and Thor, could you put on what you brought?"

"You know about SHIELD," Clint deadpanned. Civilians weren't supposed to know about a top secret government espionage agency.

"'Course I do, used to be an Agent myself, though that was nearly twenty years ago. Anyway, I'm doing this now. Now get changed, there's time for my life story later." The Avengers went to get changed, wondering how an agent became the owner of a photo studio.

When they re-emerged they found that they were in their uniforms, even Tony was in his Iron Man suit, though Bruce was simply in a dress suit with a purple shirt and a green tie. Steve kept his cowl off. The thing wasn't very comfortable and he preferred not to wear it when he didn't have to.

"So, where do we stand?" Tony asked Daniels who was sitting behind the front desk filling out some papers.

"Not sure, our photographer's not quite ready yet. She should be another few minutes."

"You don't take the photos?" Natasha asked with a hint of surprise.

"No." He held up his hand showing swollen finger joints. "Arthritis is horrible, probably shouldn't have cracked my knuckles so much to intimidate targets," he chuckled.

"Is there a lot of equipment to prepare for this photo shoot?" Thor questioned, slowly growing impatient.

"Not really, the lights and camera are easy, and the sets have been ready for an hour. Red's just taking a lot of time thinking about how to shoot this. I think we've given her enough time though. It's ten twenty and I don't want to waste too much of your time. Follow me."

They went through a door behind the front desk and stepped into an expansive room with an assortment of screens and sets along with heavy-looking lights that were for the most part off.

"Time's up, Red. They're here," Daniels called only to be met with faint grumbling. "Geez, get out here, girl. They may be super people but they will not eat you."

A petite young woman popped up from behind a table laden with photography equipment, her eyes sweeping over them before locking with Steve's and widening ever so slightly. Realization poured into her eyes, similar to the way it had when he explained to her some military terms after they'd watched a movie. On her head was a familiar red pompom bearing knitted hat. One that looked exactly like one that had graced Mel's head that morning. The woman wore the same rectangular glasses that Mel normally did and was wearing the same clothes she had been. What was the name of the photo studio Mel worked at? He'd never thought to ask and somehow she never mentioned it.

The Mel lookalike came closer to them and stood next to Daniels.

"Jack, where'd you put the extra memory cards?" Her voice was the same as Mel's too.

"There are some new 32GB cards in my desk. Red, meet the Avengers, Avengers, this is Red. Or Melinda Bleu if you prefer." He supposed it couldn't just be coincidence that they had the same name too.

"Just Mel's fine," she said quietly not looking any of them in the eye.

"Tony Stark," the arrogant man said and held his hand out. She shook it and quickly let go. The introductions went around and finally it was Steve's turn. He swallowed nervously before speaking up.

"Steve Rogers, ma'am." They stared at each other for a moment and she nodded. Steve wasn't sure if it was a sign of approval or simply a head nod.

"I'm going to grab a memory card. Jack, take them to set A, please." With that she hurried away to an adjoining room.

"She seems rather…" Tony began.

"Skittish," Bruce finished.

"She's a quiet girl, normally not so shy, but you're a rather imposing group." Daniels led them to the aforementioned set A which turned out to be just a plain grey backdrop. "She's an amazing photographer though, and this place probably would have shut down if I hadn't hired her."

Mel returned and busied herself with the camera, setting it onto a stand and then adjusting the lights. Daniels retreated to his office and left them in Mel's capable hands.

"Where do you want us?" Bruce enquired. She had them step in front of the screen one by one for single portraits. They started with Clint, who volunteered readily to go first. She took some shots of him simply standing before getting him to move around. Mel abandoned the mounted camera and grabbed a free one from off the table, moving closer to the archer as he mimed firing arrows.

Steve watched her intently. It was interesting to watch her work. She steadily grew more confident as she directed Clint's movements yet still allowed him enough freedom to do what he wanted. Her voice became steadier and slightly louder, and more often heard– though her orders were still given softly.

"Thank you, Agent Barton. Who's next?" she said dismissing Clint.

"Me! This actually looks like fun." Tony rushed up to take the assassin's place. The photo shoots he'd done for magazines were never this laid back.

"Okay, just give me a minute. I need to adjust the lights."

"Why must they be altered?" came Thor's curious voice. She hopped up onto a step ladder, turned on one of the overhead lights, and fiddled with slats on the fixture.

"Well, Mr. Stark's shinier than Agent Barton." This got a laugh from everyone. She moved to turn on lights on the other side of the set. "But I've got different instructions for Mr. Stark."  
"Aw, I'm special," Tony grinned.

"Please up on the helmet, Mr. Stark."

"Right-o. And call me Tony." He slid the helmet on and Mel began snapping away. Iron Man soon began throwing punches into thin air, fighting an invisible enemy much like Clint had. Steve worried slightly at how close Mel was to the end of some of his punches, but she seemed to know exactly how far they would go and never got hit.

"You have laser things that shoot from the palm, right?" she asked suddenly and stopped taking pictures.

"Yeah, why?" Tony said, his voice sounding off coming through the suit's speakers. Mel went back to the mounted camera and turned it toward Iron Man.

"Point one at the camera and start it up, but don't shoot. Absolutely do not shoot." He did as she asked and a familiar whirring noise sounded along with a blue light appearing in the suit's palm. Three snaps of the camera's shutter. "Okay, thanks. Please take of the helmet."

"You're so polite," Clint noted.

"Am I? I think I'm just scared of all of you," she admitted with a slight upturn in the corners of her lips. Steve knew it wasn't just nervousness prompting the manners, Mel was always polite. She took more pictures before setting down her camera and readjusting the lights.

"So why does Daniels call you 'Red'? Is it because of your hat?" She wasn't a redhead and the only other red on her was her hat. Natasha was curious.

"No, though I do like this tuque quite a bit." She'd told Steve that it was her favourite hat. "I'm from Canada, and that made Jack think of the colour red and so… yeah. Red."

"Do you live in an igloo?" Tony blurted. Mel laughed, the first they'd heard from her since entering the studio.

"Yes, and I ride a polar bear to the pet store where I buy logs for my pet beaver."

"What is a beaver?" Thor asked. At least he'd been educated enough to know what Canada and Canadians were, the rest of the team thought gladly.

"A large semi-aquatic rodent," the photographer replied, all the while continuing with her work. "I don't see what the big deal is about Canadians. We're really similar to Americans. Turn your head to the left, Mr. Stark."

He did and then said, "Stop calling me Mr. Stark. Do you like hockey?"

"Um, yes. But I also hate maple syrup. I think I have enough Iron Man shots. Next victim, please."

This time Steve stepped forward. She assessed him against the grey, and then adjusted the lights again. "Cowl on, please." He couldn't tell if her tone was cold or just professional. He wished she would smile at him so he could know that she wasn't mad. That was unlikely. Steve found that having his picture taken like this was very different from in the café. There it had been more about the setting and environment and less about him. Here it was clear that he was all that mattered in the shot.

"Geez, Cap. Stop being so photogenic," Tony groused after a while.

"I don't think I can control that."

"Well it's not fair to the rest of us. Do you think if we drew on his face with Sharpie he'd look worse?"

Mel observed curiously as the team threw banter between each other, all comfortable with their companions and obviously trusting of one another. While she found them interesting, she had a job to do and tried to focus on that. However the task proved difficult because her mind kept straying to Steve. Steve who she'd met at a coffee shop and enjoyed sketching was apparently Captain America. _Captain. Freaking. America_. When she had first laid eyes on him, dressed in his full uniform minus the cowl, it had taken her a minute of staring to piece together the sight before her. She wanted to be mad, she really did. But her sympathetic and logical side made very good arguments as to why she shouldn't. And of course rationale always won out with her (usually) and she found herself amused by Steve's nervous and sometimes fearful glances at her.

Sometime during Thor's turn, Daniels had left, saying something about having to go to his son's school. Mel promised not to let the studio burn down.

When she finally finished with their individual portraits (she was _very_ impressed with how flexible the Black Widow was) she sent them all out to get lunch. It was past one and she figured by the sounds coming from Thor's stomach that it would be cruel to keep them any longer.

"Be back in an hour," she told them as they filed out and she turned off the over head lights along with the ones closer to the ground, afterward turning on the dull fluorescent ceiling lights. She heard them walk out and let out a tired sigh. They behaved well enough, but they were still a rowdy bunch and she had to get Steve to break up a wrestling match between Thor and Clint.

Turning around, she saw Steve sitting on a bench looking painfully uncomfortable. She pushed away the urge to lock herself in Jack's office and instead came to sit by the star-spangled hero.

"Not going to eat?"  
"I'm not hungry." She knew he was lying but let it slide. They didn't look at each other, Steve because he didn't want to see the hate or anger or betrayal in her eyes, and Mel because everything was always easier when eye contact wasn't made.

"I'm sorry for not telling you about… this," he managed to say, pulling on the material of his suit. "I'm not good with dames, but then there was you, and I got comfortable with you, and I didn't know how to tell you about me and my messed up life, and I didn't know you'd be the one taking our pictures or else I swear I would have given you some fair warning and I'm really sorry. I understand if you're mad or don't ever want to see me again or if you want to hit me, go ahead. I never meant to–" A small hand was clamped firmly over his mouth, subsequently stopping his apologetic babbling. The gesture surprised him.

Another thing with Mel that he'd picked up on was her avoidance of physical contact – nothing more than a poke to get his attention or catching his wrist to pull him somewhere now and then. Their legs never made prolonged contact when they sat on the subway together and she certainly never touched his face in any way.

"I am mad at you." She felt his mouth move under her palm, presumably to mumble an apology, and fixed him with a look. "I am mad at you for eating the last oreos in my apartment yesterday. I am also mad at you for spilling juice on my copy of Alice in Wonderland. But no, I am not mad at you for not telling me about your job as Captain America." Her hand fell back into her lap.

"Why?" was the first thing out of his mouth.

"Well, this is much better than what I'd thought was your reason for knowing just about nothing about pop culture."

"And what was your theory?" he asked, his lips turning up in a smile.

"That you were unjustly thrown into prison and had no contact with the outside world for a really long time. When you were released your cultural knowledge was completely out of date and therefore did not laugh when I told you a Finding Nemo joke."

"You thought I was a criminal?" he said laughing.

"No, you're too nice for that. You were framed for a murder and they only recently found the real killer. Thus your name was cleared and you were sent back out into the world that lived on without you." Her cheeks had steadily turned a brighter shade of red as she explained her assumption. "I was way off." They were quiet for a moment before Steve felt it was safe to apologize without being reprimanded.

"I _am_ sorry for not telling you, though."

"No harm done. Okay, maybe I'm a bit ticked, but we've all got secrets; yours just happened to involve superheroes and secret government spy agencies. Coulson gave me a pamphlet," she added answering his unvoiced question. "Now, go eat something, apparently six bagels isn't enough to hold you."

"I only ate one of the bagels you left me."

"So five bagels, big difference. Any who, your stomach is growling at me in a way that is rather distracting and I have work to do."

Mel needed to start editing now or else she wouldn't be able to meet Coulson's deadline. She grabbed her laptop from her bag and turned it on, sliding the SD card into the side and waited for the device to detect it. Steve cleared some props off a chair and sat down next to Mel.

"You're not going to eat?" he asked.

"Later, I want to see how these turned out." Steve leaned closer to her to see the screen better. "What are you doing?"

"Looking at the photos."

"Go eat," she ordered, eyes not leaving the screen.

"Not unless you come with me."  
"I'm not leaving, I have work to do."

"Then I'm staying with you." Mel looked at him, realizing that she didn't have time to argue with Captain America. If there was one thing Steve was stubborn about, it was her well being. Just last week he'd made her buy new boots because the soles of her old ones were falling off. Any lingering traces of resentment she'd felt toward Steve disappeared in that moment, when she realized that Steve was still Steve, even if he was an Avenger.

So she smiled and replied, "There are muffins and bagels in Jack's office, I'm sure he won't mind if we eat them."

Later, when the rest of the team returned, they would be surprised to find their restrained leader smiling and laughing with the photographer.

* * *

A/N: Did not expect this chapter to end up so long. Forgive me if this just chapter just seems like word vomit. I'm having trouble organizing my thoughts so if stuff seems weird and out of place, sorry.


	4. Dancing and Google

Instead of things becoming awkward or uncomfortable between the two, life became a whole lot simpler, at least on Steve's part. There were no more awkward half-truths when she asked about his job, and really the whole ordeal brought them closer together. Steve now had someone to confide in about his strange life that wasn't a SHIELD employed therapist (who he had abruptly stopped visiting after two sessions ending in some smashed office appliances). It wasn't that he would pour out his heart and soul to her as they ate muffins, but there were little things he could say like, 'Clint needs to stay out of the vents' or 'I hate it when Tony takes my shield' and she would understand and not think it weird. Because somehow after spending two days with the Avengers (the photo shoot ended up needing two days to complete) Mel had not felt the need to borrow Natasha's gun and shoot them all. In fact, she was pretty calm about everything– even if she'd been pissed that Tony and Clint had smashed one of her camera lenses while roughhousing over a bagel.

She answered whatever questions Steve's confused and inquisitive mind had and did so in a way that he mostly understood. He made sure not to ask questions about history though; Mel couldn't help but rattle off information like a textbook.

She admitted, when Steve asked what she thought of the team, that they scared her a bit. The fact that they could easily kill her had nothing to do with it, she argued. Mel explained that when all six Avengers were in a room together, and even with one as a less green version of himself, they filled the room with their presence. Even when they were joking and being friendly, power apparently radiated off them, she said. If Steve thought he was good at reading people, which he generally did, Mel was even better. Knowing just by being next to a person whether they were agitated or happy. So while they gave off strength in what some would call an aura, Mel noticed the little quirks that showed it. The way Natasha's head was always up or how Clint's stance was both relaxed and ready. Tony's air of arrogance brought with it one of standing above others and Thor held himself in a kingly way. Bruce, though some would think of as skittish, Mel saw as intelligent, and to her, knowledge was power.

"What about me?" he'd asked.

"You're taller than me," she threw with a grin, but then it turned into something more serious. "You're Captain America. You are a leader, one that can keep the Avengers in line for the most part. It's clear that you lead the team. You stand tall in the presence of others, not arrogantly or proudly, just… firm. I don't think I've ever met someone so solid." He knew she hadn't been talking about his body, and knowing what she thought of him as the leader of the Avengers meant a great deal to Steve. He often questioned why he was put in that position. Thor was a prince of Asgard, and though he was still learning the ways of Earth, he probably had centuries of experience leading warriors into battle. Even Tony could be considered a better choice. The man was an egotistical bastard, but he could be serious when the occasion called for it. "Don't question it," Mel had said, making him wonder if she could read minds. "Just make sure they didn't make a bad choice."

Now they were lounged about Mel's living room – Steve's apartment had horrible heating – eating buttered toast. Their coffee shop was closed until January second and so they went to their next usual location.

"Damn, you people can move fast," she muttered as she deleted yet another blurred image of Clint and Natasha sparring. In hindsight it may not have been the most effective choice to let them actually fight, but the shots that weren't blurry were astonishing. And they claimed that they weren't even trying hard to take the other down, it was just throwing blows for the camera. Mel made a note to never upset any of the Avengers.

Steve looked up from where he'd been flipping through one of Mel's notebooks. For some reason she still had notebooks from her high school classes. "I don't know why. Notebooks have always been special to me," she explained. They were interesting to say the least. Her chemistry notes were filled with doodles and random side notes that were half in English and half in French. Her main notes were written entirely in French which Steve only partially understood because one, his French was pretty basic and the words on the page looked rather advanced, and two, Mel's writing in high school was terrible. A random jumble cursive and printing that was rather flat and crammed together.

"How the heck did you study with these?"

"Hey, _I _could read it," she defended.

"But your poor teachers, didn't they get mad at you for this?" he teased.

"Most of them could read my homework, and those who couldn't asked very nicely for me to make it neater."

"And did you?"

"I made it bigger, and attempted to keep print and script separate."

They made it well into the afternoon like that. Mel editing, Steve looking through notebooks (he was glad to find that she'd taken some courses in English). Sometimes they were quiet, others they talked. It was comforting to be with another person. Both had spent far too much time alone in their respective dwellings. Mel didn't exactly have friends in the city so she for the most part stayed at home. Steve, whether at the tower or his apartment in Brooklyn, often remained holed up in his room. At the tower it was mostly to avoid the others. They were great and they'd become something of a family, but they were also a handful and he preferred to relax when he wasn't on a mission.

0-0

"Shouldn't you be going?" she asked, somewhere around five. Stark's party was in half an hour and he hadn't even looked at the suit Tony sent him to wear.

"I don't particularly want to go." By now he'd found an interesting notebook about American history from colonization to the cold war. It was detailed and completely in English save for the odd side note. There was also research for projects included in it which made all the more fascinating. There were random tidbits sometimes related to the subject and sometimes not, like how her substitute teacher during the revolutionary era unit had a very impressive wizard-y beard.

"Mr. Stark will drag you there with his Iron Man suit if you don't show up."

"But there will be lots of people there and the last time I went to one of Tony's parties some woman kept trying to get me to…" his face reddened remembering that unfortunate incidence.

"To…" Mel prompted.

"She spent three hours trying to get me in her bed." Steve wondered how much he resembled a tomato at that point. "And she wasn't exactly subtle about it either."

Mel giggled a bit, mostly at Steve's expression though. She knew well enough what it was like having someone constantly pestering you, and it wasn't fun.

"The rest are going, aren't they? Even Dr. Banner?"

Begrudgingly he answered, "Yes." Though still made no sign to get ready.

"Just go, Steve."

"But-" his protest was cut short when she lobbed a tennis ball at his head. He of course caught it, but the action silenced him.

"Stay for the first part of it and once everyone's a little drunk just sneak away. You don't even have to leave the tower; just relocate a few floors to your room." Sometime during the part where Mel had taken their photos in civilian clothes she'd been informed about the Avengers' living status. Steve spent even amounts of time at the tower and in Brooklyn. However his apartment _really_ needed better heating.

And Mel was making it clear the he would not be spending his evening in her living room.

"Will you come with me?" Her head snapped up and her stare bore into him.

"No."

"Please?"

"I repeat; no."

"Why not?"

"I have work to do."

"Take a break."

"I already have to stare at endless photos of you people, I do not need to see the real thing. Steve, going to this party is not the worst thing possible," she said ignoring how much of a hypocrite she was being.

She stood up, grabbing his wrist as she did. "Up." He did as she asked, putting down the notes, and let her lead him to her bathroom. She pushed him in, along with the suit and then shut the door. "Change." Her order was clear and the soldier in Steve told him to obey, even if he didn't want to.

Barely three minutes later he came out, feeling weird in the formal clothing. The bow tie remained undone in his hand, Steve not knowing how to tie it.

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?" He sent her a half hearted glare.

"Can you… um," he held up the neck tie.

"You expect me to know how to tie that?"

"Well, I've never had to and I hoped that you might. So…"

With a fond sigh and a trace of a smile, she brought him over to her laptop. "When in doubt– Google it."

It took her less than a minute to find instructions on how to tie a bow tie. It took her more than seven to actually get it right.

0-0

It had, in fact, been a tedious night for Steve. Drinks were going around, loosening up SHIELD agents, Stark Industries employees, and other people Steve didn't recognize. The Avengers didn't get all that drunk, Thor and Natasha having a high tolerance for the alcoholic drinks (though the former's was considerably higher than the latter's), Bruce nursed a single up of wine all night, stating that it was much easier to lose control when tipsy, and Steve who just flat out couldn't get drunk. Clint and Tony were having fun, both looking far less than sober, but Steve wondered whether they actually were intoxicated or not.

As the night progressed, Steve couldn't say exactly that he was enjoying himself. The suit he wore was uncomfortable and the music was too loud (he realized how much like an old person sounded, soon he'd find himself yelling at the darn kids to get off his lawn). Steve didn't quite get headaches, but thanks to serum enhanced hearing, he wondered if he would get one soon. He was certainly irritated, and the number of people coming up to him to 'talk' or to get autographs or pictures with him was starting get to him. Of course Tony Stark hadn't made it secret that the Avengers would be present, but did the man really have to point them out one by one? His hope to keep his anonymity a bit longer before the photos were distributed vanished with a few quick words.

Steve smiled and obliged the people who approached him, acting the part of Captain America though not at all feeling it. He managed to slip to the food and drink a table unhindered and took a grateful gulp of eggnog. Until the liquid touched his tongue and he was hit with the strong burn of alcohol. He couldn't tell what it was, but he decided that the drink was contaminated with a large dose of vodka.

The hours passed and Steve could feel his face tearing from strained false smiles. He regretted not wearing a watch and for some reason there was not a single clock in the party rooms. JARVIS had been deactivated in the rooms as well, so he couldn't ask the AI what time it was. He may be a soldier, rising with the sun and knowing at least vaguely what time it was, but time had been distorted while he pretended to enjoy himself and wished to be back in a time where he and Bucky, and some other friends would have a Christmas party. Nothing like this one– a decent party in which Bucky would try and get him to dance with someone, ultimately failing though he had fun trying. The music would be good and not obnoxious and it would actually feel like Christmas instead of an excuse to get drunk.

When the women asking for autographs started getting handsy, however, Steve finally decided to call it quits. The elevator contained a couple eating each other's faces and he respectfully ignored it, his ears feeling hot, as he pushed his room's floor number.

"I'm sorry Captain, but Mr. Stark has instructed me not to allow you into the team's living area unless accompanied by a 'hot babe'." Steve was the only one paying attention to the British voice, and he cursed it along with its creator.

Like he did when the Avengers were being hard to keep control over, he counted to ten and let out a long breath.

0-0

Mel didn't like leaving her apartment at night. Her mother's paranoia had left a light mark on her, and she wasn't all that certain it was safe. Nevertheless, she _needed_ to go to the store and pick up some stuff. So she threw on a jacket, made sure her wallet and keys were in the pockets, and headed out.

The closest convenience store was two blocks away; she just hoped that it was open at two in the morning. Mel wasn't sure how to feel about the city that 'never slept'. While it was somewhat disconcerting how bright it was when by all rights it should be complete black, yet without it she knew she would be far too scared to journey out alone. In a sense, the lights were beautiful. From the roof of her building looking out on the twinkling skyline, Mel spent many hours photographing the traffic below and the city in general. Big cities were always great for traffic shots.

The store was open (thank goodness) and she made her purchases quickly, not liking the cashier's beady eyes. She hurried out of the store, turning right and slamming into someone.

"Thanks, sorry," she said feeling the other person steady her.

"Mel?" Her head perked up, hazel eyes finding familiar blue ones. "What are you doing here?" She held up the white plastic bag in answer. They began walking, toward Mel's apartment though neither had said a word about it.

"It couldn't wait until morning?"

"It is morning," she mumbled.

He made a noise that told her that he didn't appreciate her snark at the moment. "It couldn't wait until daylight hours?" he fixed. The street lights allowed him to see the red tingeing her cheeks. Her hair was in pigtails, he noted as she shook her head.

By the time they reached the door of her apartment, she still hadn't told him what was so important that needed to be done in the middle of the night. So while she was distracted with unlocking the door, Steve snatched the bag out of her hand, ignoring her attempts to get it back. Inside were three boxes of different sizes, one he recognized as Advil.

"What are–" he started but was interrupted by Mel.

"Tampons and panty-liners," she muttered, not looking at him. Steve knew exactly what those were. The team had thought it would be 'beneficial' for him to learn more about the opposite sex. It had been an embarrassing afternoon for him. Mel knew she really didn't have anything to be embarrassed about, it was just her body. But talking about it seemed weird and felt uncomfortable.

Pushing the door open she stepped in and Steve followed.

"I kinda need those." She held her hand out and took them into the washroom. When she came back out, Steve was laying down on her floor, his suit jacket left haphazardly on the table and his eyes closed. Mel ventured into the kitchen for a glass of water, her cramps getting harder to ignore.

"So, you know my reason for my late night outing, what's yours?" she asked, settling down by his knees.

He didn't open his eyes when he replied, "Stark wouldn't let me into my room without a dame." But Mel knew that wasn't all and she was right when he added, "I miss home." Mel's brain took a moment to realize that by 'home' he meant the forties and not his cold apartment.

"Go on," she pushed lightly. If he didn't want to continue, so be it, but maybe talking would make him feel better.

"I don't know what the big upper class parties were like, but the ones me and Bucky went to were the best. Stark's party just made me think how much things have changed… I guess I'm just homesick during these holidays."

The sadness Mel felt for her friend caught her by surprise. When her friends back in Montréal had confided in her (and usually the others of their little circle as well) she felt a slight twinge of sympathy or happiness or whatever emotion was called for. But it wasn't her life and so she never really cared all that much emotionally. Steve's predicament however, it was as if something inside her shifted and allowed her to feel for him. It was strange and new and Mel only knew that she wanted to help him.

The man lying on her rug looked exhausted and worn, the crook of his arm over his eyes. His bow tie was undone yet was still tucked under the white collar, forgotten and left to hang. Part of her felt guilty for making him go to the party that he had no desire to attend and she wanted to cheer him up a bit. Mel quietly grabbed her iPod dock from her room and brought it out front. Plugging her iPod into it, she scrolled though her songs and made a playlist she titled 'for the man on my floor'.

"Glen Miller?" Mel tugged him up, nodding in answer. Steve didn't see though, his eyes were still closed, letting the music whisk him away to a time that was. The shorter of the two guided the taller, placing one of his large hands on her elbow and the other in her own hand. Nervous embarrassment settled in Mel stomach as she nudged them into a gentle sway, feet shuffling without direction, neither saying a word.

"I've never danced before," Steve said as the music bled into their third song. Mel hummed a couple notes, telling Steve that she was listening. "I was supposed to have a date with Peggy before the crash; she was going to teach me how."

"Being a superhero sucks."

With a laugh that had little humor he replied, "Yeah, it does sometimes, doesn't it?"

"But you wouldn't give it up, would you?"

"I wouldn't," he answered without missing a beat. He looked down at her, eyes closed, glasses sitting atop her wavy hair.

"We have to live with our choices."

"We do." She frowned and said no more until the next song, another gentle tune that Steve knew.

"I'd like to say something to cheer you up, but I think I'm just making you sadder. So um, don't forget the people you knew, but I doubt they would want to you to be all depressed because of them." A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. "God, I'm bad with people," she muttered.

Similar words had been said to him, words to bring him out of his subtle moods. He pretended that they worked, to keep the appearance of a strong leader. Even during war he had done that, though Bucky could always tell he was faking. Hearing them from Mel actually made him feel better. Not by a whole lot, but whereas the SHIELD psychiatrist's were merely words, Mel's actually held meaning.

"You're good at this." He shook their joined hands. "Where'd you learn?"

"My dad. When I was little I'd stand on his feet and he'd move us around. Bet my mom still has pictures of that."

Slow songs turned into livelier ones and it was Steve's turn to lead Mel as they danced. He tried to recall how people from the forties did it, memories of Bucky dancing a welcome thought for once rather than a gloomy one. He found that dancing with Mel was fun and soon they were laughing at their terrible dancing skills.

By the end of the playlist they had settled once more on cushions, both adequately lost in dreams, and for the first time in many months, Steve's sleep was pleasant.

0-0

In the morning they woke to loud frantic knocking on the door. Christmas Eve morning, Steve thought absently. Glancing at Mel, Steve saw that she was confused as to who the visitor might be. Watching her pat the floor a few more times, he assumed she was trying to find her glasses and handed them to her from where they'd been resting on the table.

"Want me to get it?" he offered.

"No, it's fine. Will you make some tea?"

"Sure."

Splitting off, Mel to the front door where the obtrusive knocking continued, and Steve to the kitchen, the latter figured it was a neighbour and went to make them some breakfast.

As he set water on the stove to boil he heard the door squeak open and then the sound of Mel's sharp scream.

* * *

A/N: Good? Bad? Meh? Gonna go make pasta~


	5. A Bleu Christmas

Realistically, Steve knew it was impossible for someone like the Red Skull or Loki to be at the door. The first was dead and the second was imprisoned on Asgard. Nevertheless he anticipated the worst and rushed to the door fully prepared to wretch Mel from the hands of her vile attacker. He was still in the uncomfortable dress clothes, but he knew they wouldn't hold him back if Mel was in danger. She was becoming the most important thing to him in the world, and if he failed her like he failed his team, he would never live with himself. He failed his friends before, and now he refused to fail Mel.

Not another sound came from the entrance aside from a hard thump that only made Steve move faster through the apartment. There were no sounds of a struggle being made, no noise at all. He couldn't move fast enough, each second he wasn't with Mel felt like a decade and each worried thought drove Steve mad. A hundred years passed within his mind when he finally reached her. But he wasn't sure what to make of what he found.

Two men were in the hallway, one standing, the other on the ground, and both were laughing. They were tall, almost his height, and had identical faces, twins he realized. Their laughter was brought to an abrupt end when they saw him, however. And then he saw Mel, on the floor and crushed to the man sitting there, wrapped in a tight… hug?

Mel helped the man stand (after getting herself up) and pulled the two into the apartment, shutting the door behind her and then ushering them all to the living room. The two men stared at Steve who stared right back. Mel knew them, and so they weren't a threat. And it was obvious she knew them well, as it looked like she had tackled the man to the floor for a hug.

"Tristan, Ren, this is Steve. Steve, this is Ren and that is Tristan. My Brothers." Greetings were exchanged between the two parties before they settled onto floor cushions.

"So why are you here?" Mel asked.

"We wanted cake," Ren and Tristan replied in unison.

"Sorry, Steve ate the last slice of cake last week." The super soldier at least looked sheepish. "And I'm sure Viv would be happy to make you some cake."

"But hers is _different_," Ren moaned.

"There is no way you're older than me," she sighed, but it was affectionate. "Seriously though, why the seven hour road trip?"

"Mum's been hinting that she really wants you home," Tristan answered.

His twin continued, "They weren't subtle hints either. She's making the rest of us feel unloved."

"So you're here because…"  
"We're bringing you home whether–"  
"You want to or not." Steve found it both odd and amusing that they could finish each others sentences. He repressed a sigh, knowing that his friend was about to be stolen away, and it would be yet another Christmas he spent alone. A man of the past had no place in the future.

"Not that I don't want to or anything, but I promised to spend Christmas with Steve." The three men stared at her for a long silent moment. It was Steve who cut through it, managing to pick up the pieces of his astonished mind to form a reply.

"Mel, you don't have to–"

"Alright," Tristan said turning to glare at Steve (or was he Ren, Steve had lost track).

"I think–" the other continued.

"It's time–"

"We had a–"

"_Talk_–"

"With Steve." By talk, Steve had a feeling they meant interrogate. Mel's posture showed irritation and her cheeks gave away embarrassment.

In a single voice, they asked, "Who are you to our sister?"

"A friend–"

"What kind of friend?" Ren (Tristan? He cursed their identical clothing and faces) asked.

"One who I am very close with and would prefer that my brothers did not give the 'big brother speech' to." No mind was paid to the little sister and he was grilled with more questions. Where did he live? What was his job? How did they meet? What were his intentions? Why was he in her apartment? He answered as truthfully as he could to all.

Seeing that this might take awhile Mel quietly retreated to the kitchen where the kettle was whistling. She felt slightly guilty for leaving Steve alone with the twin terrors (as their mother sometimes called them) but if he could stand against invading aliens, he would be fine against overprotective brothers.

Bagels were aplenty in the cupboards and Mel felt like having eggs, so she set to work getting it all ready along with the tea. She knew Steve ate a lot, and though her brothers didn't consume as much as the super soldier, they still took in quite a bit.

Strangely enough, it didn't bother Mel so much that her family was meeting her friend. In the past she'd kept the two as separate as possible. Family stayed at home; friends, school, and work were kept away from the first. She wasn't sure why she had it like that; she just felt that it had to be. Having friends over for sleepovers was uncomfortable for her, and they were never over soon enough. Now her brothers and Steve were in a room together, one world crossing into another, and she wasn't wondering when the two would part ways, but rather if she should make omelets or scrambled eggs. She felt no need to put up a divider between them and make sure such an atrocity never occurred again.

"Where'd she go?" Mel heard Ren say from the other room as she walked in with plates loaded with bagels and scrambled eggs.

"Food!" the twins shouted.

"Stop," she ordered as they made a grab for the plates. Steve was amused by their instant compliance. "Find plates and forks. Steve, get the tea, please." Mel sat down and started munching on a bagel slice. There was a moment where the three men simply stared at her, each wondering how mad she would be if they ignored her command and went for the delicious smelling food. A single eyebrow raised over a hazel eye got them moving.

In the kitchen, the twins turned to Steve.

"She seems less depressed," the one he decided was Ren said.

"Depressed?"  
"Yeah, she's smiled more in the past twenty minutes than in the two days she visited us last."

"Maybe because it's quieter here; she said her family was loud," Steve tried, wondering how Mel could be any different than he knew her, how a day could go by when she barely smiled. She wasn't terribly expressive, but she seemed free with her smiles and laughs, letting them brighten and warm his day.

"And she's talked about us," Tristan's surprise was clear in his voice.

"Sort of," Steve fumbled, "Mel didn't say all that much, but from what I've heard, she loves you all dearly."

"It must be you," Ren said suddenly, pointing a fork at Steve, having found one after pulling open most of the drawers. "It's the only difference between then and now."

"Me? What?"

"You're bringing her back to us," Tristan clarified.

Steve was still confused. "Bringing her back from what?"

"Hmm… she hasn't opened up that much, even for a friend. Ah well, progress is progress. Let's go eat!" Ren dashed back to the living room with the forks brandished in-hand as if charging into battle.

"Hard to imagine he's married isn't it?" Tristan said and followed his brother more calmly and with plates. Not quite understanding what the brothers had meant, Steve figured Mel would tell him sooner or later, and decided to simply bring the tea.

. . .

"Alright, now that we've been fed, let's get you home." Ten bagels, a plate of scrambled eggs, tea, and a horde of embarrassing six year-old Mel stories later, Steve had yet to uncover what the twins had been talking about.

"You mean _you're_ going home. I'm staying here with Steve," Mel said firmly and went to wash the dirty tableware in the kitchen. The three men followed her in, despite how cramped it became.

"Go visit your family, I'll be fine here," Steve said at the same time the twins said, "Come on, ditch the weird muscley guy, and we'll buy you poutine."

Mel let out a quiet giggle before persisting, "I made a promise, and I intend to keep it." It wasn't quite a promise, more of a commitment, but it was all the same to Mel.

"Mel–" She flicked water in the super soldier's face and opened her mouth to interrupt him, but before she could make a sound Ren proposed an idea.

"Why doesn't he just come with us?" Well they certainly hadn't thought of that. "Mel gets to keep her promise, we get cake later and we give mum an awesome present. Way better than the necklace dad's getting her."

"Huh, it seems the lesser twin is able to come up with some good ideas after all," Tristan said with a grin. "Okay, c'mon Steve, we're going to Canada."

None were expecting the frustrated sigh the small woman let out. "Arrêtez-vous, les idiots," she snapped. "Vous ne pensez pas à Steve. Est-ce qu'il veut même venir avec nous?"

"Mais c'est parfait, Mel…" Turning from her brothers to Steve, who was rightly confused with the fast paced French, she smiled apologetically.

"You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to. I'm sorry about Tweedledum and Tweedledee; they can get ahead of themselves sometimes." Dum and Dee's huffs of mock indignation were ignored.

"I wouldn't mind spending the holidays with all of you. I think a change of scenery would be nice too." Really it wasn't so much wanting Mel to see her family (though it did make up a large part of the reason), or a change of scenery, but Steve had been looking forward to passing the holiday with Mel and if that meant relocating north over 350 miles, well, that was alright.

Mel blinked up at him disbelievingly. Then the smile that lit her face made all his worries and doubts fade into the background, and all he could see was her.

. . .

After Steve made a trip to the tower for some clothes and some of his things and Mel had packed some of her belongings, they'd set off on their long trip. Tristan drove, with Ren riding shotgun, Steve and Mel content with lounging in the back. CDs were placed in the car's player, music of varying sorts exiting through the speakers. Sometimes it was classical, Beethoven and Haydn playing most often. There were bouts of country and rock, jazz and reggae, folk and pop. Steve had politely asked Ren at one point to turn down the dubstep. Mel chucked a half empty water bottle at her brother when he brought the volume up instead of down.

The occupants of the car kept themselves busy in different ways after initial conversation slowly died off. Ren had switched places with Tristan, the former arguing that the latter drove like a duck. Tristan was all too happy to take control of the sound system (that was the Bleu family rule on road trips, the person in the front passenger seat got music pick) and played something that wasn't AC/DC. Mel continued editing the Avengers' photo shoot, her dead line still a few days away, but with the craziness that would soon be upon her, she cherished the moments of quiet and used it to do her work in peace. Steve read a book that Mel had pulled off the top of one of her book piles. The DaVinci Code was strange, but he liked it.

They passed border check without a problem (Steve thanked SHIELD mentally for giving him false papers and a passport) and Mel said warmly to him, "Bienvenue."

. . .

The further north they went the heavier the snow came down. "It's been a while since we've had a good snow," Tristan commented.

They drove through Montréal, Mel pointing out landmarks, both personal and public, like city hall or her old high school. The brothers pointed things out too, telling stories to go with the otherwise insignificant sights.

Another hour north-west of Montréal and they were finally at their destination. Night had long since fallen and out in the country the wind was the only sound apart from the rumble of the car.

"I forgot to ask," Mel said as they went up the long driveway. "Who's already here?"

Tristan turned down the music and answered, "Ren's girls are here, Vivien, Grandmère and Grandma, Aunt Liz, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Simon," Steve's eyebrows went up as the list extended. "Benny and Jo, Tante Danielle and Pierre, Mari, Tante Genviève, Tonton Sam, Rachel and Tom, and the rest should show up sometime tonight and tomorrow."

Entering the house, the four were met with the sweet smell of cookies, brownies, and dinner. Steve was glad for the warmth, the short walk from the car to the house had chilled him and he didn't like it.

"Hey, does Mum know you guys drove across the border to get me?" Mel asked her brothers quietly when Tristan put a finger on his lips telling her to keep quiet. It seemed everyone was in the den or somewhere else in the spacious house, leaving the front hall empty.

"Nope, we left a note saying we'd gone to a bar in the city." Mel shook her head and took off her boots and jacket and Steve followed her example.

"Papa?" a tiny voice said. From the doorway of the kitchen a toddler looked up cheerfully at the four adults standing by the door.

"Ma belle petite Belle!" Ren's daughter toddled over to them; mostly steady but still wobbling now and then. She made it over to her papa, grinning proudly at having walked five feet all by herself. Ren snatched her up, twirling her around bringing a fit of giggles, finally letting her rest on his hip.

"Ren, Tristan? Is that you?"

Quickly hiding Mel behind the much larger Steve; Tristan called back, "Hi, Mum!" A furious looking woman stormed out of what Steve supposed was the kitchen and cast angry glares at her sons.

"Renal Martin and Tristan Edmond what makes you two think that you can just leave in the middle of the night and go to a bar? What sort of impulsive stupidity possessed you to do such a thing when Christmas is just a day away and you should be spending time with your family? I raised my sons better than this. You two should be men but you act like boys."

Her angry eyes swept over the two but continued on to an unexpected third. Mrs Bleu's eyes softened when looking at him and Steve was glad her wrath wasn't being unleashed on him too.

"I'm sorry, you are?"

"Steve Rogers, Ma'am." She wrinkled her nose at the name.

"Just call me Millie, dear. And I suppose you're the twins' designated driver, thanks for getting them home safely."

"Actually," Ren began.

"We're completely sober," Tristan continued, "Steve here is a friend of someone's and would have otherwise spent his merry Christmas not so merrily alone. So we brought him here." Millie sighed much the way Mel had back at her apartment.

"They didn't force you go come, did they?"

"No, Ma– Millie. Here of my own free will, if you don't mind me imposing."

"Of course not, you're absolutely welcome to stay. And I hope you won't mind me chewing out these two some more, I really don't know what they were thinking."

A man came down the stairs, raising an eyebrow at the collection of people standing by the door.

"Back from the bar?" he aimed the question at the twins.

"Never went, Pa," they answered together, sharing a grin and turning to their mother. "We went to get your present."

"Oh, and what sort of present requires leaving the house before dawn and lying about going to a bar?" The man who Steve assumed was Mel's father came to stand by his wife.

"Steve, please take two steps to your right," Ren said dramatically. Steve complied, hesitating a moment or two to give Mel time to prepare, and smiled at the shocked yet delighted faces of Mr and Mrs Bleu.

"Surprise," Mel smiled. She was engulfed by her parents' embraces instantly, her mother crying slightly and her dad pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Judging by the yelling, I think the twin terrors are b– Mel!" A blonde haired girl pushed Mel's parents out of the way and squeezed the brunette in a death hug.

"Viv! Air, need air," Mel choked out.

And soon the rest of the present family trickled into the hall, all welcoming Mel back home, all wondering who the tall unknown blond was but were content to put it off until after Mel had been bombarded with greetings and hugs. Mel for the most part dealt with the welcome well, lightly returning the embraces and making polite small talk. But Steve could see the miniscule tense of her shoulders, the loose thread on the hem of her sleeve that was being picked and pulled at, and her eyes that never held another's for too long. He brushed her back with the side of his arm, letting her know he was there for her. Mel's mother went back to the kitchen along with some others, as the rest migrated to the living area and settled wherever seemed comfortable. Mel took a spot by the lit fireplace with Belle – who had tottered over to her – in her lap and Steve sat next to her. Belle played with the scarf Mel still wore, tugging it and waving it around for no particular reason aside from simply seeing what the soft green thing would do.

Two elderly women sat on a couch, one knitting the other fiddling with some sort of wooden puzzle. Steve decided that they were Mel's grandmothers.

"Care to introduce us to your friend, Mel?" the knitting grandma said with an accent that was distinctly French, though not quite the same as Jaques's had been. Mel bumped his leg with her knee, silently telling him to introduce himself.

"My name's Steve, Ma'am," he said with a smile. Introductions went around the room, and Steve committed the adults' names to memory. The kids were playing in another room, he'd been told.

"Brooklyn boy?" the other grandma asked, this one spoke without a trace of French.

"Born and bred, though I thought my accent was gone."

"It's in there," the old woman assured with a wink he didn't understand.

"So what brings you here?" the one he remembered was Vivien asked– Mel's sister. He wasn't quite sure how to answer. He was here because he didn't want to be alone. Because he had wanted to stay with Mel. Because the cold and emptiness of his apartment would have driven him mad. But he couldn't give those reasons; his stubborn pride wouldn't let him say such personal things out loud.

It was Mel who came to his rescue. "I promised to spend Christmas with Steve since he doesn't really have friends or family there, but then Ren and Tris came to spirit me away. Didn't want Steve to be alone during Christmas so we brought him with us." Her explanation was given just above a whisper, the kind of voice that Steve remembered using when he read his papers in front of the class back at school. The family seemed used to it however.

A woman with a critical eye and a stern face was next to speak. "If he was born and raised in Brooklyn, how is it that he has no friends or family in New York?"

Mel knew his story, both the real one and the false one he'd created for situations just like these. She looked at him, her eyes telling him that it was his tale to tell.

"My parents died some years back and I'm an only child. Any other family I might have are probably in Ireland, but my parents didn't say much about them, so I'm not even sure how to contact them. As for friends, well, the few that I had have… moved away or tend to be busy."

"Well then it's a good thing they brought you with them," Mel's father said with a kind smile that told Steve that he was welcome in their family.

"I think that it's about time our Mel found herself a man," the same stern faced woman said, earning a couple of nods. Mel and Steve went bright red, eyes widening and feeling themselves shrink under the others' amused gazes.  
"We're not–" they started together, staring at each other for a moment before turning back to everyone.

"Steve's my friend."

"Mel is…Mel," Steve said weakly, unable to voice all the reasons why she was his friend or why he refused to acknowledge the lightness he felt around her as anything more than happiness at having a friend. His mind couldn't formulate words for how grateful he was to Mel and why he wouldn't risk ruining what they had for the chance at something more that he wasn't even sure if he wanted or not. So all he could say was, "She's my best friend."

"Are you sure? You two would be cute together," Vivien contemplated.

And then Ren started in a sing-song voice, "Steve and Mel sitting in a tree K-I-S–"

"C'mon, you're hungry, let's go get food," Mel said depositing Belle onto the nearest relative and dragging Steve out by his elbow, the super soldier more than happily going with her.

They entered the kitchen where Millie and some other women were chatting and cooking.

"You two should keep away from the cutting board, we might mistake you for tomatoes," a girl with red hair said teasingly. Mel whispered to Steve that it was her cousin Rachel.

"Mum, do we have a room for Steve?" She grabbed some bread rolls from the table.

"The rest of my brothers are coming tonight, and your dad's siblings will be here tomorrow. We're going to be completely full. I hope you don't mind sharing a room, Steve."

"Not at all."

"Could Steve and I take the loft?"

"If no one's already taken it." And then she added firmly, "Absolutely no fooling around up there you two." An 'or else' was implied. The red had faded from their faces but returned full force again as they left, Mel replying with an irritated, "Oui, maman" and then grumbled, "Sérieusement?" Steve was amused with all the French being brought out of her.

Grabbing their things from where they'd been abandoned in the hall, Mel then led them up the stairs to the second floor, turning several corners, and then opened a small door to what Steve initially thought was a closet, but instead revealed a flight of rickety stairs. The house seemed quite big, Steve thought.

"This house is Grandmère's. I'd come here with my siblings during summer vacation every year, whether we lived in Europe or in Montréal it didn't matter. I told you I moved a lot, but I've kind of avoided going into any sort of detail. Sorry about that." There were two single beds on opposite walls, a desk by the window and a dresser. The walls weren't painted; instead old wooden panels lined the walls making the room feel cozy. Light came from four lamps around the room, a ceiling light absent from the minimal décor.

"I figured you would tell me when you felt like it." He knew what it was like to have people pushing for your story, people who didn't understand that some things didn't want to be shared. Steve recognized that Mel wasn't an open book, to understand her he had read between the lines, taken into account every line and loop of writing on the page before turning to the next, even examining the state of the page. And it was always Mel who turned the page, allowing him to see into her life, he never forced it. She was the same with him, never pushing for what things were like back in his time even if he could see the curiosity dripping from her movements.

"My dad was military, I told you that right?" He nodded. "We moved a lot because of that, every three or so years. We stayed in Canada for the most part, but there were a couple stretches when we spent time in other countries." From the way she kept herself partially distracted by unpacking, he knew that she hadn't particularly enjoy moving. "We moved to Montréal permanently when I was fourteen. Papa left the military and started a sort of hockey camp here. We've got two rinks out back. In the summer it's a summer camp."

Steve glanced at the window, hoping to see the aforementioned hockey rinks, but then realized it was pitch black out. He started unpacking too.

"I shared this room with Vivien. I got the desk and she got the closet."

Mel recounted happy stories of her time in the house, trading them for small memories of sickly Steve Rogers and his adventures in Brooklyn. The stolen bread rolls were eaten and were gone without either having realized it.

When they were called down for dinner, neither wanted to leave their haven of reminiscence. Steve didn't feel any sort of stabbing or tearing in his chest when he remembered and spoke about Bucky or his ma, about the friends that were only kind of his friends, or about the kind man who ran the candy store on the corner and would give him a free lollipop on his birthday.

Remembering hadn't hurt. That night it had been healing.

* * *

A/N: Thank you people who have reviewed thus far. It's good to know that people read this and I'm not performing without an audience. Not really sure how long it's been since I've updated, but it's felt like a long time, so I apologize and hopefully I can get the next chapter out soon Sorry if this chapter and some of the next aren't all that good. I'm terrible at juggling more than two characters in a scene so when that happens, things tend to get a bit jumbled and dialogue-y. Also I know nothing about the military so please don't hate if I got stuff wrong.

Translations (sorry if my French isn't so good, don't use it much outside of school):

_"Arrêtez-vous, les idiots." _Stop, you idiots.

_"Vous ne pensez pas à Steve. Est-ce qu'il veut même venir avec nous?" _You're not thinking about Steve. Does he even want to come with us?

_"Mais c'est parfait, Mel." _But it's perfect, Mel.

_"Bienvenue_." Welcome.

_"Ma belle petite Belle!" _My beautiful little Belle!

_"Oui, maman." _Yes, mom.

_"Sérieusement__?" _Seriously?


	6. Family For The Lonely

Organizing dinner probably would have taken longer if the family didn't go through it every year. All those under eighteen were herded to the living room after filling their plates, an adult or two going with them as supervisors of sorts. Those who remained sat down at the dining table, a large round thing made of solid oak. There was a bit of squeezing involved in order to fit everyone around the table, but eventually everyone was seated comfortably and began filling their plates with food.

Steve enjoyed the smells of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and all the other dishes that had been prepared. Before being frozen he'd never had all that much to eat. His mother's job as a nurse didn't bring in enough money for food and medicine to keep his numerous ailments at bay, and when the Depression hit it became that much harder. During the war, food wasn't all that easy to come by either. It wasn't so bad when they were stationed near a town or city where supplies could be bought, but when they set up camp in more remote areas, or when he and his team were on missions, rationing hadn't exactly allowed for feasting.

So whenever food was placed in front of Steve Rogers, he appreciated it more than most people probably would (at least of this time), and made sure none of it went to waste.

Steve sat between Mel and her uncle Simon, comparing living in Canada and the States with the older (younger?) man. Mel talked quietly with one of her aunts; Genviève he thought was her name. The varying smaller conversations soon coalesced into one and the family began catching up on each other's lives since they'd last seen each other. Everyone shared something, whether it was about new neighbours or a job promotion, each person had to put something forward.

They came to Steve and he simply sat there as the rest waited expectantly. He waited for Mel to speak up and tell them about her life, but she let out not a peep and all eyes were on him. He had a creeping suspicion that they wanted him to say something, but why? From under the table he felt Mel tap his foot with hers and he turned to her. Eyebrows slightly raised, he could tell it was his turn.

"Me?" he asked to make sure.

"Of course, you're sitting at this table. Something interesting happened to you recently?" one of Mel's aunts said.

There were many things he could have brought up. Waking up nearly seventy year into the future, becoming an Avenger and taking down Loki, trying to find his way through the modern world… He doubted they would let him stay if they knew the insanity of his life.

So he said, "I watched The Princess Bride the other day."

"Did you rent it?"

"No, I watched it with Mel at her apartment. Or really, I watched it while she did work." Laughter both quiet and loud went around the table and even Steve chuckled at the memory.

"And did you manage to do anything, Mel? When you won't even watch one of your favourite movies in favour of doing work?" Millie asked smiling.

"I made a friend." She tilted her head in Steve's direction. "I think that's a pretty good accomplishment."

. . .

Steve hadn't been all too comfortable with sharing a room with Mel – with a woman, to be more exact. Adjusting to the twenty first century was something he worked at every day, but some things didn't come quite as easily. He would have been content with relocating to the living room couch, but Mel insisted that her mother would have both their heads if he took the lumpy old couch over a perfectly good bed.

"There are _two_ beds, Steve, and nearly four meters of distance between them." After much persuasion and several hard looks, Steve relented and got into his bed.

The lights were off and the moon couldn't be seen through the thick clouds and flurries of falling snow. After a couple minutes Steve heard Mel's breathing even out, and though generally that meant a person was sleeping, Mel's breathing also did that when she was very calm. She lay semi-curled on her side; all of her completely hidden under the comforter save for her hair, some of which fell into her face.

The soldier felt a bubble of happiness knowing that the timid woman across from him was comfortable enough to share with him her room. They'd done it the night before as well, but that was different. Settled on the floor after a restless night; it was far more innocent than some might think. Mel had pushed him past another one of his moods, gently coaxing him away from the dark thoughts and making those gloomy ponderings seem lighter.

He would be quite a depressed bastard without her, Steve thought as he slowly allowed himself to drift off into sleep.

. . .

Waking up early was nothing new for Steve. When he was a kid he was woken up to the sound of his parents bustling about the house, or just his mother later on. At the orphanage they always got up early for chores. Sharing an apartment with Bucky, he'd had his share of sleep-ins, but then he had joined the army and it was back to waking with the sun.

Old habits die hard, Steve thought as he took in the darkness of the room. There was no clock in the room, or at least not one that he could see, but he assumed that it wasn't the middle of the night. Getting out of bed, he shivered as the cold air caressed his exposed skin. He estimated that he'd been in Canada for twelve hours or so (he really wasn't sure what time it was) and already the cold was getting to him.

Being frozen in ice for nearly seventy years had made him derisive of the feeling, prompting him to spend many nights at the tower during winter or to hunker down under a mountain of blankets. He wasn't afraid of the cold, but he certainly disliked it.

Deeming his sweats to be more heat preserving than his khakis, he left them on and threw on a sweater that Mel had picked out for him. It had been one of extremely few trips to the large shopping centers and he'd hated every minute of it. There was nothing outstandingly bothersome about the experience, just small things. The large crowds of people, obtrusive advertising, the utter alienness of the environment… Those however, added up into a large ball of noise, and in the end he had asked Mel if they could leave (feeling much like a five year old with the way he'd tugged on her sleeve and sheepishly made his request). Mel had smiled and given an imperceptible sigh of relief, quickly bought him the sweater (after Steve had given her the money of course), and then they'd left.

. . .

Finding a clock in the hallway, Steve saw that it was later than he thought it would be; 7:03AM. So perhaps it wasn't late to other people, but Steve normally woke up within the five o'clock hour. The day before he'd slept in until sometime past ten, and that only because he'd been woken. Then again he'd been awake for hours dancing with Mel that night and had fallen asleep probably minutes before the sunrise.

_Dancing_.

He'd promised to do that with Peggy. Would she even want to? Did she hate him for leaving her like he had? It was strange, his once constant ponderings of those he'd known weren't as frequent anymore, not forgotten – never forgotten – but it was no longer incessantly at the forefront of his mind nor was it driving him to the brink of insanity. Perhaps he was moving on with life.

Smells of food in preparation and the sounds of kitchen activity brought him to Millie and Vivien cooking. With ingredients and meals partially prepared scattered on all surfaces, the cheerful women looked at home bustling about the space, holiday music floating out of a radio on the counter. The similarity between mother and daughter was evident, both with spiraling ringlets of blonde hair, full figures, ears that poked out from beneath the coats of hair, and small but positively glowing smiles; he had a feeling that they were alike in both personality and appearance. Steve wondered what it was like, for Mel, growing up with people who sang along with the radio without a care that they were off key.

"Good morning," he said, deciding that he should announce himself. The room's occupants seemed a little surprised as he walked in, the younger immediately putting a stop to her too loud singing.

It was Millie who spoke first. "Morning, Steve. Did you sleep well?"

"I did, Ma'am. Is anyone else awake?"

"The kids will be up in about an hour, and then their parents once they hear screaming. For now though, I think Sean and my brother Luke are in the living room if you want to join them. All our missing members arrived last night."

"Do you need any help here? I'm not a great cook, but I can follow directions."

"Don't worry, we've got everything under control," Millie made shooing motions at him, and he thought that he may have intruded upon a yearly mother-daughter tradition.

"Breakfast'll be ready by the time everyone's up," Vivien spoke up, stirring something that was possibly pancake or waffle batter. "Oh, and merry Christmas." Huh, it _was_ Christmas.

"Merry Christmas," he replied, and left the two Bleu women to themselves once more.

Entering the living room, Steve spotted the familiar face of Sean Bleu and of another, unknown to him, but he assumed was the aforementioned brother of Millie. Unlike in the kitchen, his presence in the doorway was immediately noticed and the two greeted him with a 'merry Christmas' and a 'good morning'. Sean took it upon himself to introduce the two strangers. "Luke, this is Steve… what was your last name?"

"Rogers, Sir. Steve Rogers."

"And Steve, this is my brother-in-law, Luke Barrov. Steve's the friend Mel brought from New York."

Steve stuck out a hand for the other man to shake. "Nice to meet you."

"You as well. Tell me, are you in the military?"

An eyebrow went up, but Steve shouldn't have been surprised. "I was, but I'm not really on active duty anymore." Considering the Avengers were only called in for planetary threats, it wasn't exactly the steadiest job, though the number of villains trying to alter the entire Earth for the worse was rather astounding.

"You're still pretty young, what made you leave?"

It's not lying, he told himself, just a twist of facts. "I was missing in action for a while, and then later I was declared killed in action. But then I came back and I've been on indefinite leave ever since."

The US army was actually trying frantically to get him back into service, but of course SHIELD wouldn't let that happen. Part of him did want to go back and really be a soldier, but when he thought about it, what would he be fighting for? In the 40s there was a war going on, one where everyone was struggling and doing their part. Steve just wanted to do his. He had been fighting for his city, his country, but now? What had he to fight for? To believe in?

"MIA, there's something." The sound of Sean's deep voice brought him out of his pondering. "What happened?"

Here, Steve twitched, hopefully not too visibly. What happened was that he'd been frozen in ice for nearly seventy years and everyone he loved had died. What he said happened was, "I don't really remember. Went into a coma and woke up in a bed in New York." And then had torn through the false wall of the deceptive hospital room and rushed out into Times Square, which was an experience that had persuaded (read: scared) him to remain in his apartment as much as possible and hide from the flashing signs and overt advertisements. "It's taken me a while to get back on my feet." He was still figuring out how to walk.

The in-laws shared a look, one that Steve knew meant something, but he couldn't discern what that something was. He thought he saw a flash of pity, but he pushed that away and ignored it. "Our family's got quite a few in the military, or were. If you ever want to talk, we're here. We know it's sometimes hard to talk to psychiatrists or people who just don't know." It hadn't been pity that he'd seen, it had been understanding in their eyes.

Directing his words to Sean, he said, "Mel said you were in the military…" but he didn't know where he was going with that thought. "Thank you," he smiled at the men, "I might take you up on that offer." The earnestness he felt must have showed, because the older men gained satisfied looks and the subject was changed to something lighter.

"So," Sean began, leaning back on the couch as Steve made himself comfortable on the cushy but worn loveseat. "Your rank, soldier?" A mouth movement that looked suspiciously like a grin formed on Luke's face.

"Captain. Army." Technically he'd been promoted to Colonel after his 'death', in honour of his service and sacrifice, however he decided to stick to his usual title. And Colonel America sounded weird.

"Huh." Did that sound smug? "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"And you joined…"

"Sometime around twenty-two, I think."

"That's impressive," Sean said with an approving nod.

Then Luke said in a tone that was definitely smug, "But just to intimidate you; all the military people in this house are higher ranking than you." Of course Steve being Steve, that fact did make him slightly nervous. "Navy Captain Sean Bleu, Navy Captain Paul Yaine, Air Force Colonel Camille Bleu, Lieutenant Colonel Pierre Bleu, Navy Major Mattieu Bleu, and let's not forget Lieutenant Colonel Renal Bleu." With each name and rank listed, Luke's grin grew bigger and bigger.

"Are you scaring Steve?" The three men turned to find Mel dropping down next to Steve, along with a white and cocoa dog that Steve assumed was Spot the Spaniel.

"You're up early," her father said with a trace of surprise.

"7:30 AM isn't that early, Pa."

"Last time you were here you didn't wake up until lunch." Mel looked away with an embarrassed smile and turned her attention to scratching Spot's head. She was still in her sleep clothes, loose-fitting flannel pants and ragged purple Henley, and her hair was pulled into a hasty bun that let more than a few strands fall loose. "Back to my earlier question, are you two scaring Steve?"

"Of course not," Luke replied indignantly. "Just informing him of our family's military status."

Mel snorted, "The great Major Luke Barrov of the Royal Canadian Air Force is trying to pull rank on a house guest."

"It might be useful during hockey," the major shrugged. Wait, hockey?

"So, can Captain Rogers ice skate?" Sean asked.

"Never tried, but I'll give it a shot."

"Also guessing that you've never played hockey before," Mel said.

"Nope."

"Well, we'll leave you crazy kids to yourselves. We should probably get the equipment ready."

"Good thinking, Sean. Don't want a repeat of last year."

Lifting a curious eyebrow, Mel asked, "Last year?"

"Couldn't find the junior sticks, so the petits were trying to play with adult hockey sticks." With that, and a bright grin from Luke, the two were gone.

"Your uncle's quite the fella," Steve commented after a silence.

"Yeah, he's the youngest of the siblings on both sides. And he's the only other adopted, so he made it a priority to make me feel welcome when I was first adopted."

They talked for a bit, Mel mostly explaining her family and which kid went to which parent, or who was a francophone, who was Anglophone, and who were bilingual. She went in a bit about her family's military line; that it started before the First World War, and there'd always been at least one soldier in every generation since. Some of her younger cousins were cadets, most of them already knowing that they wanted to be in the military when they grew up. Steve then started talking about his father, who'd served in the First World War. He spoke quietly and softly about it, knowing that if anyone overheard it would require some explaining, and because he'd never really talked to anyone about either of his parents in this new time.

Neither realized how much time had passed, but then, almost out of nowhere, a swarm of children flooded into the room, their parents only a few steps behind. Steve and Mel relocated away from the bright, ornamented tree to make space for kids diving for their presents.

Mel laughed, and Steve found himself joining her, as they watched the younger ones eagerly opening their gifts. Spot meandered over to them; placing his head on Steve's leg as the man stroked his side. It was a good thing the living room was a large space, with so many occupying the area; people scattered on the floor, sofas, chairs, and leaning against walls.

Christmas with the Bleus was much livelier than he'd ever had with his own family, or at the orphanage. The Christmases he'd spent with the Commandos had been entertaining, at least. Their first together, they had been on a mission, which didn't stop them from having holiday fun. As soon as the sun was down and they'd set up camp in the woods, Jim had brought out a couple flasks filled with beer and Falsworth had brought whiskey. While it hadn't been blatantly Christmas-y (they'd sung carols, decorated a pine tree with their guns, and exchanged gifts) they had to remind themselves not to too into it, as they'd been just miles from enemy territory. There'd been more than just a little roughhousing, which nearly set the forest on fire, but in the end they returned to base safe and sound, where they promptly went in search of a bar for some New Year's Eve drinking.

He hadn't noticed that Mel had left and gotten her camera until he heard the familiar sound of a camera shutter, and Mel walking over to the kids and their new toys. She was practically invisible as photos were snapped of the family. Some looked into the lens and smiled, others were completely oblivious to its presence. Mel was never in the same spot for very long, lingering now and then to watch a present being unwrapped or to chat with a relative.

Unbidden, a shiver of loneliness crept up on Steve as he watched everyone around him having fun with each other, the feeling distancing him from the merriment of the room and pushing his mind to other, less than jovial thoughts. Steve didn't fight the feeling, instead letting it take him away. It wasn't like he belonged with Mel's cheery family. Steve Rogers wasn't part of the Bleu family, or any family… Alone again…

"Stop thinking."

"What?" _Snap_.

"I don't mind taking pictures of people with sad faces, but if that person's name is Steve and it's Christmas, that makes me a bit sad too." Spot had left his side without his realizing, Mel taking the small patch of floor in his stead. "Smile?" He did, hoping it didn't look too forced. The camera went up, but then came back down silently after a moment. Her lips pulled into a frown and along with the combination of minute head tilt, shoulder tense, and other near imperceptible movements Steve understood that she was asking if he was alright.

"Just missing people," he said in answer, looking over at Ren and his little girl. Though she had a pretty doll in front of her, the toddler preferred playing with the bow and sticking it to her dad's face. "My parents and some friends… wish I were with them." A warm hand slid into his, squeezing slightly. It took him a second to realize that it was Mel's. He turned his eyes back to Mel and saw her giving him a gentle smile. Steve let his larger hand squeeze hers back; acknowledging the gesture that was practically a hug considering who it was coming from.

Feeling an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, Steve twisted around to see Sean; the man's other hand on Mel's shoulder. He beckoned them out of the present opening area and into the hall where it was empty and easier to be heard.

"Grab something from the kitchen and head out. Mel, you're teaching Steve how to skate, and show him a bit about hockey too."

Both looked bemusedly at the older man. "Um, Pa. Why?"

"Sir, I think I'll be fine just winging it."

"In an hour or two, almost the entire family is going to go out and we will have a big hockey game." Neither Steve nor Mel seemed to get the point. Facing his daughter squarely, he fixed her with a level gaze. "Nous ne sommes pas des joueurs gentilles au deuxième match. Des leçons _tranquilles_ lui donnera plus de chance contre nous autres." Mel's expression lit up at that and she nodded with a smile.

"Steve, could you grab some food? I'm going to find you some skates. And winter clothes."

"I'll take Steve find clothes, the skates are already in the shed."

"Alright, I'll get food stuffs then, and grab _my_ winter gear." Mel swung around the corner to where Steve remembered the kitchen was.

"Rogers," Sean said, and his tone made Steve snap to attention.

"Sir?"

"Just Sean, Steve. You're good friends with Mel, yeah?"

"_I_ think so. Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all. I just… I worry about her sometimes. Do me a favour and watch out for her, please? She doesn't call nearly as often as Millie and I would like, and it would make it easier to sleep at night knowing that she's got someone for her."

"No problem, Si– Sean. I'd do it even if you didn't ask. She's great to be around."

"Thank you," the other man said with genuine gratitude and Steve got a firm pat on the back. He hadn't gotten one of those in a long time… since Colonel Philips if he thought back. "Now let's find you a winter jacket."

. . .

They took it slow, once they'd gotten their skates on. Mel taught Steve more through demonstration than instruction, but that was alright with the soldier. Mel found that her friend was a quick study, and was slightly disappointed that he didn't start off like a large human Bambi when he first got on the ice. He smirked amusedly at her when she said as much.

Steve held onto Mel's forearms, not putting his weight on her, but keeping steady enough hold to remain balanced. He marveled at Mel's ability to skate backward, as he could barely skid forward.

"Are you sure you've never skated before?"

"I went roller skating with Bucky and two girls once. But I fell and twisted my ankle."

"Well you're doing pretty well now."

"You're kind of the only reason I haven't fallen on my bottom yet, though."

"'s alright. Falling's not that bad."

She led him around for a bit, letting him get is ice legs.

"So, you're dad was nice, letting us go so that I could learn this and not make a fool of myself."

"Yeah, but you would have been fine, anyway." Steve snorted, but Mel ignored him. "He knows the noise would get to me sooner or later. Really he's just giving me a break and a slice of quiet."

The rink wasn't perfect around the edges, rather than boards marking the perimeter, snow banks created the cushion and barrier between skateable and non-skateable surface. There was another rink with boards encircling it, but Mel preferred the snow banks. It was colder than Steve expected, and he shivered despite the thick jacket Sean had lent him. It was definitely better than his usual leather jacket. Around the rink they went, randomly crossing and changing direction as Mel pleased, Steve slowly but surely getting the hang of the task. He was becoming at ease with the balance required and friction of the ice and was feeling fairly confident.

Until Mel's next three words. "Now let go."

"What?"

"Let go of my arms. You won't fall." He did, rather reluctantly as holding onto something made him feel safe. Mel skated away and then stopped about four meters in front of him. "See if you can make it over here," she called, her breath steaming in the cold air.

Steve pushed forward, arms only flailing a little, nevertheless with push he could feel himself adjusting and steadying. When he stood in front of her, he could help but grin.

"See? Made it over just fine."

"I have a great teacher."

She shook her head with a smile. "You're quick on the uptake of things. Let's show you how to stop next."

Though it was cold, and the wind had started to bite, Mel and Steve continued for a while, Steve soon mastering the art of ice skating, and easily chasing Mel around the ice. Mel managed to evade him, however, and used years of practice to her advantage as she taught him the basics of hockey.

. . .

Two hours later, Mel began wondering why the others hadn't come out yet for the first match, and so they decided to go inside to warm up and find out what was going on. Coming in from their little lesson, cheeks rosy, hair slightly frosted, and still grinning and laughing, Mel and Steve peeled off their chilled outerwear, and stood near an air vent blowing warm air to bring warmth to their frozen bodies. Steve warmed up quickly, though a chill clung to him even when he was in fact quite warm. The bitter cold of winter (especially Canadian winter), would probably never appeal or even sit comfortably with him, but for all it was worth, learning to skate had been fun.

"Tu veux quoi en plus?" a partially hushed, angry voice sounded from the living room. It was Mel's dad. "Elle sourit et elle rit sans le forcer, et tu dis qu'elle est _quoi_?" A reply was given, but from where they were by the front door, neither could make out what was said.

Steve and Mel shared a glance, silently edging closer to the source of the raised voices. They stopped outside the living room, where the majority of the adults were in heated discussion. Well, it was a tad too angry to simply be a _discussion_, Steve thought. Neither made a move to enter the room, opting to listen in, hidden by the doorframe.

Vivien's furious tone was next to fill the air. "Can you not attack her every time she comes up in conversation? She may be adopted, but she's still part of our family."

"Elle est une menteuse. Ces sourires et rires sont tous faux. The little brat. Vous ne voyez pas qu'elle est une misérable constamment déprimée. Elle a du jamais aller à New York, elle devient de plus en plus maudite." The venom in Elizabeth's voice surprised even Mel. Steve remembered her as the stern looking woman from when they'd arrived the day before.

Steve could see that Mel had frozen against the wall, and he assumed they were talking about her. In a whisper he asked if she wanted to go upstairs, but received a nugatory shake of the head.

A voice that sounded like Ren's barked out, "Ça fait des années qu'elle était tellement contente! Non, elle n'est pas comme avant Irak, mais Mel est heureuse. Et toi, de tous présents maintenant, n'a aucune droit de juger. Oublies-tu que t'à refuser de la visiter à l'hôpital à cause d'une raison stupide qui était qu'elle n'a pas suivi ton exemple et est devenu photographe au lieu d'une couturière? Why the hell would she choose that anyway?"

"Elle pleurait pour son copain et tu l'as dit de l'oublier parce que tu pensais qu'il n'était plus qu'un délinquant," Tristan hissed. "Chaque fois qu'elle retourne tu décides de l'avilir."

Tante Elizabeth spoke again, and her tone gave off only disdain. "Ses choix de vie ne sont pas des bonnes. Photojournaliste? C'est un emploi d'idiots et de cons."

Steve saw a spot of blood drip onto the floor, and then another, and another. Reaching for Mel's hands, he pried open the white-knuckled fists so that her nails weren't stabbing into her palms. She tried to pull her hands away but he didn't let her, instead holding both her wrists in one hand and using the other to snatch a tissue from a box and wipe away the trickle of red off her hands.

"What are they talking about?" he asked softly when he finished.

The voice that spoke didn't sound like Mel when it said "Me." The voice was less than a whisper and was so insecure and meek that Steve hardly believed that it came from Mel.

"Et les amis qu'elle fait…" the acid aunt continued. "Steve, ce gars là, un américain stupide. Elle avait deux personnes qu'elle pourrait marier. Où-ce qu'ils sont maintenant? Un est mort et l'autre a le capacité mental et physique d'un légume!" That seemed to be a trigger, and the room burst into angered arguing in both English and French, the sounds swirling and clashing against one another, creating a heated storm of malcontent.

"Steve," Mel said quietly, tugging him toward their room. "We're leaving."

. . .

When they came back down after throwing their things into their bags, the callous voices were still going strong. Mel stormed into the room with a stony look on her face. Steve followed in a moment later.

"Taizez-vous!" It wasn't quite yelling, but the two words were said loud enough and the room's occupants fell silent. "Steve and I are going back to New York." She glared at them as a round of disappointment formed by words sounded. "I'm getting my life together. It's been slow, and that's fine. But you, all of you, you still look at me with pity and remorse as if I'm something broken, maybe I was, or maybe I still am, but I'm fixing myself. Pity wasn't welcome when I came back, or at the funeral, and I don't want any of it now. I hate to leave now, on a note like this, but if I'm going to cause arguments like this whenever I'm here, I think it's best if I just left."

There were the expected "Don't go", "Let's think this over", "We can work this out together", and some things in French, but Mel would have none of it, shaking off any hands that tried to pull her away from the door. "I'm not the only one with cracks," she said to them.

Steve and Mel left without any other hindrances.

. . .

Steve had suggested that perhaps they should have stayed and talked things over with her family, but Mel insisted that it was for the best, and that nothing would be accomplished by lingering.

"Okay, so we're going to drive your dad's car back into the city and then we're going to buy train tickets back to New York."

"We're already in the car, so we'll get the tickets in about an hour and a half. We'll see what we'll do from there."

The radio was turned on, and some local station was playing cheesy Christmas music. They sat in silence for a while, Steve driving and Mel reading, neither saying much.

"Um, I'd like to know what all that was about, back there," Steve put forward cautiously, uncertain of how Mel would react. There had been so many emotions back at the house, swirling around and from Mel. Frustration, anger, sadness, desperation… he didn't understand why the calm level headed gal he'd gotten to know had been so troubled.

"I'd like you to know too," she replied after a pause. The corner of her book's page was folded, marking her place, and then was stowed away in her bag. "I used to be a photojournalist, freelancer. Taking pictures of newsworthy happenings and sending them off to newspapers or magazines or whatever. Along with two really close friends, I photographed a lot of… conflict. Starvation, social injustice, war… Nothing had ever been perfect with that job, but all the good things outweighed the bad and we kept to it. And then we went to Iraq…"

Perhaps he'd imagined it, her voice wavering on the last part. "What happened in Iraq?"

Breathing in heavily, her voice not at all steady, she said quietly, "My fiancé died and my best friend was put into a coma and hasn't woken since."

* * *

A/N: Hi, I suppose it's been a while. Sorry about the delay. I meant to have this chapter out two days ago, but my best friend came back home and I've spent the past 30 hours with him (haven't seen him for nearly a year). Anywho, happy holidays to all!

Translations:

"_Tu veux quoi en plus?"_ What more do you want?

"_Elle sourit et elle rit sans le forcer, et tu dis qu'elle est quoi?"_ She's smiling and laughing without forcing it, and you're saying she's _what?_

"_Elle est une menteuse. Ces sourires et rires sont tous faux. Vous ne voyez pas qu'elle est une misérable constamment déprimée? Elle a du jamais aller à New York, elle devient de plus en plus maudite." _She's a liar. Those smiles and laughes are all fake. Can't you see that she's a constantly depressed wretch? She should have never gone to New York, she's becoming more and more wretched.

"_Ça fait des années qu'elle était tellement contente! Non, elle n'est pas comme avant Irak, mais Mel est heureuse. Et toi, de tous présent maintenant, n'a aucune droit de juger. Oublies-tu que t'à refuser de la visiter à l'hôpital à cause d'une raison stupide qui était qu'elle n'a pas suivi ton exemple et est devenu photographe au lieu d'une couturière?"_ It's been years since she's been so happy! No, she's not like she was before Iraq, but Mel's happy. And you, of everyone here, have no right to judge. Are you forgetting that you refused to visit her at the hospital for the sole stupid reason that she didn't follow in your footsteps and become a dressmaker?

"_Elle pleurait pour son copain et tu l'as dit de l'oublier parce que tu pensais qu'il n'était plus qu'un délinquant."_ She was mourning her boyfriend and you told her to forget him because you thought he was nothing more than a delinquent.

"_Chaque fois qu'elle retourne tu décides de l'avilir." __Every _time she comes back you decide to demean her.

"_Ses choix de vie ne sont pas des bonnes. Photojournaliste? C'est un emploi d'idiots et de cons*."_ Her life choices aren't good ones. Photojournalist? That's a job for idiots and morons.

*_con_ has several meanings, all insults, but I'll leave it at a milder one.

"_Et les amis qu'elle fait… Steve, ce gars là, un américain stupide. Elle avait deux hommes qu'elle pourrait marier. Où-ce qu'ils sont maintenant? Un est mort et l'autre a le capacité mental et physique d'un légume!"_ And the friends she makes… That Steve guy, a stupid American. She had two men she could have married. Where are they now? One's dead and the other has the mental and physical capabilities of a vegetable!

"_Taizez-vous!"_ Shut up!


	7. Listen To A Story

"You were engaged?"

Mel let out a sad chuckle. "I know, hard to believe."

Actually he didn't think it was that strange, unexpected, yes, but not at all impossible.

"His name was Clement, Clem for short." He saw her repress a twitch at the tense. "We started going out a couple years after high school. At first the two of us did photography for some nature magazine, with most travel expenses paid for by the company."

"Just the two of you?"

Mel nodded. "Michael joined us later on. He was studying at McGill, wanted to be a pediatrician."

"McGill?" Steve asked, assuming it was some sort of college or university, but with Mel he'd made a habit of inquiring after little things that he knew would bug him if he didn't know for certain. Mel never minded.

"McGill University, one of the most reputable universities in Canada and is also located in Montréal. Michael couldn't afford it after his first year and ended up joining us." She was quiet for a moment, a glance at her showing him an expression he often saw in the mirror staring back at him after waking from a nightmare.

"The three of us were gravitating to photojournalism, though we still did nature shots for the magazine. We started submitting photos to news magazines, at first as a joke, but actually got published a couple times. That's when we considered photojournalism seriously, and then decided that if we had time to screw around taking photos of flowers and horizons, maybe we could use that time to make a difference."

Steve understood how powerful a photograph could be, especially since he was from a time when photos weren't as easily created by the average person. In the many history books he'd gone through to catch up on the times, he was often flattened by the intensity of an image. So Steve knew that showing the world a photograph could make a difference. The image of a starving child outside a convenience store had, after all, prompted him to volunteer at a food bank for the next week.

"We signed a loose contract with a company and traveled around, photographing anything and everything. Clem liked to focus on nature and environment – buildings in ruins, clear-cutted forests; that was his cup of tea. Michael had an eye for finding the perfect moment of a situation that created the most astounding photos. They're idiots, but great at photography nonetheless. We had so much fun in all the places we went to." Steve wondered if she'd even noticed that she'd left out _her_ specialty. Before he could bring it up, she continued. "About three years after our start, we went to Iraq. You've read about the situation there, right?" He nodded. "We planned on being there for three months, which turned into six, and then ran into seven. It was dangerous there, obviously, but the people were amazing. Well, most of the ones we met at least. As with any place on this planet, some people are just monsters." It was clear she was talking about extremists.

Though he could sort of see her, glancing briefly to her seat now and again, he made sure to keep his eyes on the road. He wished they were somewhere else to have this conversation, somewhere where he could watch her for the tiny signals that said a million different things about her, where he could tell whether or not her tone of voice was lying.

"Why did you extend your trip?"

Mel smiled at this, the first warm smile he'd seen that wasn't tinged with sadness since getting in the car. "We met a couple there and their family, well two, really. For most of our stay they were our guides, which we were _very_ grateful for, seeing as none of us spoke Arabic. They were kind to us and became our family there, strange as that may be. They invited us to stay for their son's wedding and since it only a few weeks after we'd planned to leave we thought 'Why not?'"

"Do you still keep in touch with them?"

"We exchange emails now and then. Amir, their son, had his second child a few months ago. Our plane departed three days after the wedding, but the on our way back from the wedding–" Something between a sob and a noise of choking escaped her. "A roadside bomb, one blew up on our way back from the mosque. Yamha, the mother of the groom, invited me to ride back with the other women, while the guys were in the other two trucks. We made up a sort of caravan, three vehicles driving single file. The first truck had the men, the younger guys minus Amir who we'd forced to stay with us and his new wife. Second was us, females plus Amir. Last were the older men and about half the children who didn't want to ride with their mothers and sisters. Clem was riding shotgun, probably trying to talk to Amir's brother in broken Arabic, but Michael was sitting in the back of the pickup, making weird faces at me as I sent equally weird ones back.

"We started taking pictures of each other's faces, and would probably have compared them in a contest later, but we never got the chance. I remember raising my camera up to capture Michael's stupid grin with half his tongue sticking out, but the moment after I released she shutter, their truck was thrown to the side by an explosion. Bits of debris had flown everywhere, but all I could think about were my idiots. They'd driven over an IED, which triggered its explosion. I– I found Clem first." Not a sob, but almost. "He was already dead. And I just sat there, on my knees, staring at his body. I didn't go see if Michael was alright or if anyone else was for that matter…" There was shame in her voice at the admission. "I went to Michael once we were at a hospital. Clem had been taken away, and so I stayed by Michael when he came out of surgery. He went into a coma and hasn't woken up since. His back was broken, and so if he wakes up, he won't be able to walk anymore."

No words were exchanged between the two for a time. Steve's mind was reeling from the new information and in wonder.

Dum-Dum had taught him they every person had their story. Whether it was one of tragedy or of normalcy, each was different and special in its own way. He used to listen to people's stories; a private's inspiration to join the army, one of the Howler's life growing up in a minority… He'd listen to anyone, really. In this new time however, he'd stopped. Perhaps he'd been too far gone in his own sorrows to listen to the ones of others, but it seemed that he'd forgotten that there were also happy moments to even the saddest stories.

Steve opened his mouth to say something, turning his head a fraction to look at Mel, but she had her earphones– though there was no music playing. He took the hint and let her stew with her thoughts in silence.

. . .

"How are your hands?"

"Fine, the scabs will fall off in a day or two." Despite her assurances, he took her hands in his own, surprised at how warm they were, and saw that the little dark half circles were doing just fine.

"Sorry for ruining your Christmas," Mel muttered.

The diner was quiet, only a few other patrons occupying the tables, Steve and Mel had settled into a booth by the window. It was an old family diner, the only restaurant on the street that was open. Mel told him that she had come here a lot with her parents and siblings before moving away.

"Not ruined, just… eventful."

"Today's supposed to be a happy day, but I've kind of just made it depressing. Sorry."

"Hey, I'm pretty sure that if it weren't for you, I'd be completely alone and be a depressed weirdo shivering in my apartment. And you mean a lot to me, so what's it if you want to get some things off your mind."

"It's about minus thirty out, think you'd be better off in New York…" he heard her mumble. His eyes widened and he felt his jaw slacken.

"M-minus thirty?" He honestly couldn't tell anymore, it seemed anything remotely similar to the arctic ice set him on edge.

Mel seemed to notice his distress and hurried to say, "Celsius, Steve. Sorry, I'm no good at American measurements. I think that translates into minus twenty-five or something."

While that was a tad better, it was still far too cold for his liking. Mel pushed her hot cocoa toward him, the mug still mostly full, giving him a look that told him that she wouldn't be taking it back. He sipped the creamy drink gratefully, glad that they'd chosen a booth away from the front door.

"You were fine with the chill when we were skating," Mel remarked.

"That's because I didn't have a definite number. I thought it was something around fourteen degrees. Fahrenheit." A moment passed as Mel mentally converted the number to Celsius. Immediately an eyebrow rose up, the corners of her mouth creating a subtle curve. She was clearly unimpressed.

"What?" he asked rather uneasily.

Mel hesitated, her earlier look now abated and replaced win an uncertain one. "I'm not sure if you want to know."

"Tell me, I can take it," and Steve wondered if he actually could or if it was just his pride talking. It wouldn't be the first time it had done such a thing, and it usually ended with him on the ground with bruises in some alley.

"That blizzard we had last night?" she asked. Steve nodded – as if he could forget. "With the windchill we were easily at minus forty."

Staring blankly at her, he asked, "Celsius, right? What's that in Fahrenheit?"

"Minus forty, it's the same…" He gripped the mug tighter as she muttered, "I should have just kept my mouth shut."

"No, I'm fine–" he began to protest.

Mel interrupted tentatively. "Steve, you're shivering."

The knowledge of the temperature shouldn't be affecting him so much, but it was. Sure he had issues with the cold, nearly seventy years in a block of ice would do that to a fella, but shivering at the mere thought of the plunging mercury? Apparently his troubles liked to linger.

Mel was looking at him apologetically, noticeably regretting bringing up the topic. Her lips were slightly parted, as if to voice her apology, though no sound was made.

"Hey. It's alright. Let's not think about it anymore, yeah? What did you want to do for the next three hours before our train arrives?" Steve hoped distracting her would wipe away the remorse from her face. It didn't work as well as he hoped, but at least the subject was dropped.

"There was someone I need to visit."

. . .

The man on the bed was tall, probably as tall if not more so than Steve. Pale blonde hair rested to the shoulders, and though his height would allow him to tower over others, Michael Black was a skinny fellow. Disregarding the hospital bed and the equipment he was hooked up to, he looked as if he were only sleeping; ready to wake from his nap at any moment.

"So he's been like this since…"

"Since we came back from Iraq," Mel confirmed. "Nearly five years. He was in and out of consciousness for about a week before he went completely comatose."

Steve watched as Mel approached the bed without pause, curling the fingers of one hand around the grey bed railing and with the other running the tips down her friend's cheek. The gesture was soft, as if she were afraid of waking him if she were any less careful. He could imagine Mel conversing to the still man in her mind; it seemed like something she would do.

"I can step out if you want," he offered keeping his voice down. Aside from the wind whistling outside and the low hums and beeps of the machines, it was altogether soundless in the room. When she didn't reply immediately, Steve took that as his cue to leave.

"No…stay, please." Her hand caught the sleeve of his jacket and tugged him closer. She didn't acknowledge his presence further, though kept a firm hold on his sleeve. Steve didn't comment on it.

"Hey, Atlas," Mel began gently, her voice quiet yet loud in the silent room. "This is the first time I've visited since July, sorry. Things are going well in New York though. My boss is great, I've gotten some interesting projects, and I switched over to STARKtech, for the most part, like you kept bugging me to do. They're pretty big now, so the prices have dropped a bit." She shifted closer to Steve. "And something totally unexpected; I made a friend. I brought him today. Michael, this is Steve; Steve, this is Michael –we tend to call him Atlas." Mel continued to ramble, a rather strange occurrence in contrast to her less than talkative nature. Steve listened out of curiosity, hoping to glean more of his friend.

Mel slowly told the unconscious figure everything that had happened to her since her move to New York, from which Steve found himself knowing most of already, but was surprised to learn that she had spent her first month in the city unemployed.

"Mel, our train leaves in an hour," Steve noted glancing at a clock. They'd been there for over an hour. Mel nodded, finally letting go of his sleeve after having held onto it the entire time, and placed it along with the other around Michael's.

"I promise to be back when I can, Atlas. Don't do anything stupid." The last she said with a smile that Steve recognized as one that was reserved for a private joke. "Bye."

. . .

The train was practically empty, Steve and Mel occupying two seats near the front while a group of teenagers sat at the other end of the cabin, what looked like three parent chaperones sitting close by them.

Neither said a word as the train departed, both worlds away. Mel, following the trail of thoughts brought on by the day's events, was thinking about all that had changed in her life, whether it was good or bad. Steve's thoughts were rather scattered, flitting from thought to thought about Mel, and remembering his own past; and the pain from losing it all.

In their moment of quiet he took the chance once more – as he'd done throughout the day – to see how Mel was doing. Steve had never seen her so exposed, so open. She hardly talked about the past beyond the day they'd met, and to Steve it simply seemed that she was a person of the present, not one to brood over times long since gone. He found strength in that, following that example of the past kept away and unable to spoil what was now. It hadn't occurred to him that Mel had her own shadows to force back.

"You alright?" he asked, alarmed (though not as much as he might have, all things considering) at seeing the tears that were hurriedly wiped away.

"Yeah. It's just been… a long day." She wasn't looking at him, and no more tears fell.

"I'm going to hug you now. 'kay?" He didn't wait for her reply as he circled his arms around her, and brought the smaller body to his, glad that there seemed to be a lack of an arm rest between them. Mel was stiff, as he held her, not that he'd expected less, but given a minute she relaxed and put her weight on him.

They stayed like that, as the sounds of the train's chugging continued without care, as the teens in the back argued over something or other, Mel took comfort in the warm presence of Steve until her released shudders came to a halt.

When they pulled apart, neither said a word. Mel soon fell asleep, tired from the day, and feeling guilty for making Steve endure her breakdown. She'd make it up to him, she decided, when they got back to New York.

Steve had a lot to think about. There was so much more to Mel's story than he thought there was. Truly, she'd had an amazing life, but also a sad one. He had known that she'd taken up various photography jobs before working at Tintype, but he figured they were more along the lines of starving artist than war photographer.

He remembered the horrified looks of some of the journalists that had come over seas for the latest scoop on the warfront, not having realized what war really looked like. What had Mel felt when she saw those things? A moment of anger shot through him, the thought of Mel witnessing the underbelly of the world sitting poorly with him.

Mel shifted in her seat, slipping sideways until her head was pillowed by Steve's arm. Not quite sure what to do, Steve forced himself to relax, having unconsciously gone stiff as a board. A displeasured murmur escaped the brunette's lips, her brows drawing together ever so slightly.

Deciding that she probably wouldn't be mad upon wakening, Steve gently snaked his arm over her shoulders and brought her closer to him. Despite how solitary and quiet she was, Steve realized that Mel wasn't the kind of person used to flying solo. Growing up in a family as extended and lively as Mel's, it was no surprise that she was one for companionship, only contradicted by her timid and reserved nature.

Mel would always need someone, and Steve was more than willing to step up to the plate.

. . .

Rustling movement roused her from sleep, blearily she opened her eyes a crack and could make out that she was still on the train. Mel wasn't sure how long she'd been sleeping, but she was more focused on the weight on her shoulders than how much of her sleep debt had been paid. She was leaning against something warm and firm. And smelling faintly of a familiar aftershave. Her eyelids fell shut once more, and Mel let herself return to nothingness, knowing that she was safe.

. . .

By six that evening they were standing in front of her building.

"You don't have to come see me tomorrow. You're probably sick if me by now."

"I'm not. And you're right, I don't have to, but I _want_ to."

"Stubborn idiot," she huffed, but a smile found its way to her lips.

At eleven, as she crawled into bed, she sent him a message saying 'thank you for being with me today'.

When he couldn't get back to sleep after a nightmare at three in the morning, he checked his phone and smiled at what he read.

It was barely five when her phone rang.

"Mel speaking."

"Sorry for waking you," a familiar voice said.

"Something wrong?"

"No. But I've been called in."

"Avenger stuff?"  
"Just Black Widow, Hawkeye, and Cap. I leave in half an hour, so I won't be able to see you tomorrow, er.. today. And I don't know when I'll be back."  
More awake, she said with worry, "It's fine, just come back in one piece, 'kay?"

"I'll do my best."

"Thanks for calling me."

"I'll call again when I'm back."

Sitting alone in the café at eight in the morning, Mel missed Steve.

* * *

A/N: This chapter isn't as good as I hoped it would be. And it seems really fluffy too me. Ah well, I'm sick and fluff makes me feel better. Sorry about the late update! Gonna go steal another box of tissues…


	8. Struggling Under A Blanket

"_He's called the Winter Soldier."_

"_What's his specialty?"_

"_He's a sniper."_

"_And an assassin."_

"_Our assignment?"_

"_Bring him in, or end him."_

"_Cap, stand down!"_

"_Please! I know you're in there! Bucky!"_

_Bang._

. . .

Day four and still not a single word from Steve. She'd checked her phone frequently, sometimes imagining it vibrating, only to have it read 'no new messages' and 'no missed calls'.

"He's fine," she tried to assure herself. But he was Captain America, and though that meant he was a lot tougher than the average Joe, he was also more inclined to put himself in harm's way. She'd seen footage from the attack on New York, the city in a panic as aliens rained down from the sky. Captain America's weapon was defense, a shield, and he used it well and to the advantage of those he was protecting – not necessarily himself.

Mel tried not to think about it too much, Jack had noticed her spacing out and not paying as much attention, and he was worrying. So she pushed it from her mind and focused on her equipment. It wasn't very attention-grabbing. No clients on the day before the New Year, and so she and Jack had taken the opportunity to sift through the stacks of equipment, picking out the broken items, and seeing if they could be repaired.

Camera bodies were laid out on a table, surprising Mel with the sheer amount she hadn't even know the studio owned. In particular, there were several film cameras of varying ages that caught her eye; one of which was an old black and silver camera that Mel fell in love with only a couple minutes after she'd held it in her hands. The camera was beaten and weathered and had clearly been of frequent use. It was a German-made camera, yet a postage stamp of some sort on the back was from Egypt. Mel could only wonder who the previous owner had been.

A lot could be said about the mystery owner simply looking at the worn piece of equipment. Electrical tape covered much of the dull coloured steel that must once have shined, a dent in one corner suggesting a hard fall, dust gathering in the crooks showing age… This camera had traveled the world, and had now come to spend the last of its days in an old studio, stored away within a tattered box….

Again her mind strayed to Steve. Sometimes it was hard to wrap her head around the fact that Steve Rogers was Captain America. And the original too, despite the story SHIELD had cooked up about Steve being the first Captain's grandson. There were times when Steve seemed so lost, and she'd also come to recognize when he was disappointed or frustrated with what was around him. Times like those Mel would put on some music for him, whether it was through the dock in her apartment or handing him her iPod at the café.

"_Why do you have so much music from… my time?" He had trouble sometimes saying the 1940s as a number, a past date, as something so far away. _

"_I've got a pretty wide range of music taste." And while that was true, before Steve she hadn't had much jazz or big band in her library. Know that this helped him calm down and relax, she'd spent a couple hours after work combing through an HMV, looking for some to play for him when needed. She hadn't expected to come to like it so much. _

_It seemed that he knew at least that he was the primary reason for her store of oldies, because he smiled gratefully though said no thank you. The appreciation was clear in his eyes. _

"_I met Glenn Miller once, have I ever told you?"_

_Whenever he told her about the time far before her own, yet barely that to him, she found that there was a certain light in his eyes that flickered and waved, seeing two worlds separated by a rift greater than any chasm. Often he would clam up when she asked something about back then, diverting her attention (with impressive skill she always noted hours later) and left the beast of his memories undisturbed. It was as if reminiscences of that life were sleeping dogs and he let them lie. But on occasion, when he had slept a decent amount and could keep his mind from sinking to the waters that had engulfed his plane, he recounted stories of skinny Steve. He didn't talk about the war days, perhaps mentions of his team at most, but she didn't push. Those she left to him alone. _

"Red! You're phone's hissing and making weird noises!" Jack shouted from the front desk.

"Press the green button and talk into it! I'm getting the broken light down!" she called back. It had to be Steve!

Scrambling off the step-ladder, twenty pound light fixture in hand, she deposited it by the table of other things that needed to be repaired and hurried to the front.

"Oh, and here she comes! Feel better, Captain. You can stop bouncing now, Red."

"Steve!"

"Hey, Mel." He sounded tired, very tired. _Exhausted_. That wasn't good.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. No… I think I am. Uh, would you mind if I… stayed over tonight?"

"Isn't Mr Stark having his New Year's bash tonight?"

"I'm exempt." He gave something resembling a laugh. "Apparently the man takes pity on people with holes in them."

Mel wasn't quite sure how to react to that. "How bad?" she hated the way her voice shook.

"Um, I think it'd be best if you didn't…"  
"Steve."

"Ah… Shot in the thigh, shoulder, and got clipped in the side of the head."

"Maybe it'd be better if you stayed at the Tower. You shouldn't go around with bullet wounds in you."

"I'll be fine. I just need to… to get away from this for a bit. Ya know?"

Maybe she did. Or maybe she didn't, not quite like he did. "I do," she said anyway. "If you want you can head over there now. I'll be there in an hour or so."

"Key?"

"Under the monkey statue on the shelf. You know the one, in the hall?"

"Okay. I'll… see you soon."

"Soon," she agreed.

. . .

There were, in fact, three monkey statues, and though he was inclined to lift each monkey (each was a different size and a part of him wanted to feel their different weights), he tilted the second white stoned figure and found the dull, false bronze key.

His phone had beeped on his way over to the apartment. The message read: _Use what you want. There's cake in the fridge._ Absently he wondered what kind of cake.

Once inside, Steve peeled off his stiff layers, carefully hanging his jacket on a coat hanger and placing his wet shoes on the fraying hall mat. Entering the living room, he dropped his duffle bag onto a cushion and simply stood in the room. It was different without Mel. There was no warm comfort he associated with her presence near his, nor the soft noises that came not directly from her, but whatever she was doing. The tapping of a keyboard, snap of a shutter, or even her foot sliding under the table and nudging his. And it was colder.

The silence was unsettling. Pushing against his well rooted manners, he stepped into Mel's bedroom, searching the tidy space for her iPod. He didn't dare touch anything, so it was possible that it was there but hidden under a hat or a scarf.

The monotonously beige walls were made more interesting with an assortment of photos. Some were framed while others were taped, a few were pinned to a large cork board that took the place of a mirror on the vanity. Steve recognized a couple people as family members, her brothers and sister appearing most often in the glossy images, and some of her friends. The majority of the pictures however, were of places and people who were little more than strangers (or so he supposed). A couple images stood out more than the others simply by the sheer gloom of them compared to the other more picturesque photographs. Streets lit only by unstable lampposts, long shadows engulfing large portions, old buildings haunted, not quite decimated though almost… He wondered where they were taken, but then realized that he was snooping and had no right to do so.

Turning his eyes away from the cork board, he looked down at the vanity top. His scan of the surfaces reeled in no shiny music playing devices, and so he slunk back to the main room, where he fell onto one of the softer cushions and leaned against the wall.

He let out a sigh filled with frustration, tiredness, and conflict.

He'd failed the mission, both on a professional and a personal level. He knew the hand-to-hand fighting style was familiar. And the voice when they'd encountered the assassin the second day…

"_Bucky?"_

"_No. Winter Soldier."_

How was he alive? No, he knew how. What ate at him was the 'Why didn't I save him?' that screamed and tore him apart. He shivered.

"_You're in there; I know you are, Buck."_

"_Just stop it, _Captain_. This 'Bucky Barnes' – if you're not lying so that you can put a bullet in my head – really was your friend, well then he died on that mountain, under the snow."_

His best friend was an assassin; mind wiped and reprogrammed to think like a machine. Bucky Barnes, who loved women a bit too much and was all too willing to get himself and his best friend neck-deep in trouble with anyone and everyone, was now in a sort of trouble far beyond getting caught with the teacher's apple in his mouth.

"_Sorry, Captain, but I have to run. Places to be and people to kill."_

"_Bucky–"_

"_Just stay down, Cap. Two bullet wounds are enough. You can't do this all day."_

"Steve."

His vision was filled with a concerned face, hazel eyes looking over yellowing bruises and bandages not quite or not at all hidden by his clothing. He realized that it may have been a good idea to take a nap before coming here, but she didn't comment on the dark circles that were sure to be hanging under his eyes. Or perhaps she'd mistaken them for bruises.

Rather than her usual jeans and blouse, she wore a tattered sweater and cotton shorts that just reached her knees; it was clear that she'd changed out of her work clothes. When had she come in?

"Want cake?"

"Before dinner?"

"You're hungry, and I haven't made dinner yet."

"'m not hungry." No, that hadn't been a good thing to say. He winced infinitesimally as her warm smile became a worried frown. "I_–_"

"Do you want to see something?" Not understanding her sudden change of topic, he simply nodded and watched as she dug through the piles of binders, books, and papers, eventually pulling out a thick, dark brown folder.

Mel came to sit next to him, and although he expected her to leave the usual couple inches of space between them, she leaned against his arm and spread open the grey binder, a cover on each of their laps. While he was surprised at the lack of blush or sign of embarrassment that usually accompanied anything half as personal or physically close as this, he appreciated the calming and comforting feeling that came with it.

"These are from my eighteenth birthday." The folder was in actuality a photo album; in which were images of a younger Mel who smiled wide and bright, without the dark taint of the world. "Michael, Clem, and my brothers decided that it would be a spectacular idea to take me to a bar and see how long it took to get me stupid drunk."

"For your _eighteenth_ birthday?"

"Legal drinking age is eighteen in Canada. Well, parts of it."

The first couple pages contained pictures of Mel and three guys, all of them wearing red and white, a younger Ren wearing a Canadian flag as a cape.

The twins, however many years ago, were as identical as he knew them now, the only way he could tell them apart were their t-shirts which were emblazoned respectively with a big R for Ren and a T for Tristan. Michael leaned on Mel from behind, arms draping over her shoulders and chin resting on her head. Both had what looked like painted maple leafs on their cheeks, the leaf crinkled slightly with the stretch of their smiles. Wondering where Clem was, Steve realized that he must have been the one taking the picture.

Mel's smiles were different in the photos, Steve noted as they flipped through the pages. It was more carefree, probably in part due to her age, but also there was something of innocence about her. He wondered what happened to his smile once he joined the war.

The girl in the photo hadn't seen her fiancé's lifeless body, or her best friend bloody and broken, or even the troubles and hatred of the world. The quiet gal of these photos was different than the one leaning against him. The Mel he knew smiled and lived knowing that life was precious and that nothing was sure, and while that was fact just another part of this Mel, seeing a past version smiling simply for the sake of smiling and because it was just happy, that was pleasing to Steve as well.

Flipping the page, he was met with photos of Mel finally at the point of 'stupid drunk' and was dancing with little restraint, Tristan pulling her around just as foolishly. The last image on the page was of Mel, either sleeping or unconscious, being carried on the back of a brown haired man who was smirking.

"That's Clem," Mel pointed to the man he'd been looking at. "The idiot carried me all the way home. This was when we still lived in the city." Her fingers brushed over the image. "What do you say to a little drinking tonight?"

"It's been more than seventy years since I've been drunk."  
"You were frozen in ice."

"No, not just that. Since Project: Rebirth–" He faltered, realizing that that was probably classified. "Um… Thanks to the serum, my metabolism processes the alcohol before it can affect me. Can't get drunk."

"So I'm guessing taking you to a bar to drink away your sorrows isn't going to help."

"Unfortunately. When's this?" He placed his finger over a photo, tapping it lightly.

"Le bal. Prom, pretty much. Viv and Atlas made me go. Ick, my hair…" Her smile in the image was timid and shy, self-conscious even. There was a photo of Mel and her parents, each looking pleased and content, except Mel, who seemed rather embarrassed about the whole thing. Another showed Mel standing between Michael and Clem, both taller than her though Michael was by far the tallest.

"Michael was my date, which was kind of weird since he's like a brother, but when Clem showed up at my house after his girlfriend broke up with him we ended up going as a group."

The young men wore black suits, Michael in a bowtie while Clem sported a regular neck tie. Each had an arm thrown around the only one in a dress, though she didn't seem to mind it. The image was the average high school prom scenario that he'd often seen in films on the team's movie nights.

"Your dress is beautiful." All of her was beautiful. Her hair was longer than now, cascading down in spiraling ringlets. The dress was dusty purple with sleeves draping to her elbows. It vaguely reminded him of the red dress Peggy had worn….

She turned him away from the path of reminiscing, commenting, "I got dragged out by a bunch of other girls to find dresses, and I was one of the few who actually found one."

"Is shopping for dresses… difficult?"

"No, but they were looking for 'the one'. I just picked one that my friend said I looked nice in."

He wanted to tell her that she looked more than just nice, but then the page was turned and he was distracted by Michael and Clem on the branch of a tree over a lake. The photo next to it showed Michael with his arms held out, palms forward, a broad grin on his face, and Clem no longer sitting on the branch, instead falling toward the water, limbs flailing.

Beside him, Mel chuckled quietly, her shoulder still pressed to his arm shaking with the rhythm of her breaths. "Weekends at Grandmère's," she explained. He found himself smiling as well at the contrasting expressions of terror and delight on the teens' faces.

They sat together on the floor, neither keeping track the time they spent there. Mel's parents may have had the embarrassing photos of her as a child, but Mel had photos of everything since her teen years, which to her was when her life really began. Becoming a legal adult, graduating high school, first student art gallery… it was all there.

The last few pages held images without Clem. When Steve voiced this, Mel replied, "I hadn't really known Clem at that point. He was an athletic sporty guy that never crossed paths with the bookworm and art recluses."

In high school Mel had joined an arts club, where different visual arts came together to share their work. Painters, sculptors, photographers, and the like merged mediums to create the school's centerpiece of the biannual Arts Gallery. While Clem and Michael had been her closest friends, she'd managed to get to know the other club members, most of them girls. The most challenging part of their Arts Gallery projects had been finding a creative and interesting way to meld the drastically different mediums together, but they'd risen to the occasion every time.

Her first Gallery project with the club had apparently been the most difficult for the group, as they'd never had a photographer before, but the issue was resolved by using an enormous photograph as a canvas (five by six feet, where they'd found a place to get a photo done that big he didn't know), painting certain elements onto it with acrylic paint, pencil sketches on the back, and an intricately sculpted frame to encase the piece.

The image was a clash of realism and fantasy, a class of students playing dodge ball, but instead of gym clothes they wore acrylic armour, carried swords and other medieval weapons, and rather than throwing dodge balls, spheres of magical energy were hurled at the enemy. The large sketch on the back was the inverse, fantasy warriors, armies separated by a grand chasm, threw plastic skinned balls at one another. Elves, dwarves, large beasts that looked like a cross between dragon and wolf… And they were playing _dodge ball_. Steve couldn't help but laugh.

The final image of the album was oddly out of place. It was aged and weathered, yet the colour in the faces was bright with emotion. A portrait of a man and a woman, husband and wife, was alone of the last page. The couple both had an arm around each other and were smiling joyfully at the camera.

"Are these your…" he trailed, not wanting to assume.

"My birth parents: Emily Lloyd and Sebastian Nichols. Both were teachers, and that's almost all I know about them. I don't know or remember much of them," she said with a distinctly sad sigh.

"But then you got Sean and Millie."

Turning his head slightly to look at her, he saw the curl of her lips as she mumbled, "And they're my parents too."

The couple in the photo were both blondes of the fairest sort, unlike Steve whose hair was of deeper colour, or Mel – their daughter – whose was a different colour entirely. Their faces were angular and bore dimples as they smiled, showing a kindness most associated with a mentor or parent.

"You don't look much like them." Though he supposed they shared a nose.

"No, not at all, but I don't know what my grandparents looked like, so that might be where I got all this from." She tugged at the hair that wasn't flaxen and that wasn't pencil straight, but also meant her face which was more round and the downturn of her eyes as further differences.

"Do I get to see the photographs from your travels?"

"Another time. Right now I'm going to go throw something together for our dinner."

"I can help." Mel nodded and the two got up, Steve was instantly unhappy at the loss of her weight and warmth against him. He followed behind her, and watched as she searched the refrigerator and cupboards for foodstuffs.

Really, he was rather useless when it came to meals beyond things roasted over a fire, but he didn't want to be alone. He could have spent the night at the Tower, where he had his own living space that was fully heated, but that also meant staying the night at the Tower. Stark Tower. Which was hosting the annual Stark New Year Bash. So drunk people of all sorts would be wandering around the Tower; not how he wanted to spend the night. And there was also the fact that the people in the Tower that he actually liked were all with him in the life of the not so normal. What Steve needed was _normal_. He was just Steve, not Captain Rogers, Captain America, Cap, or anything other than Steve Rogers the kid from Brooklyn.

"You've got that look again," Mel flicked a hand of water at him.

"What look?" he asked, poking at the wet spots on his shirt.  
"The one that means you're thinking and you need to stop."  
"Stop thinking?"  
"Yes."

"Wait, before I have to stop thinking," he ventured. She paused and looked over shoulder, nodding at him to continue, and then returned to pulling things from cupboards, though he knew she was listening. "Why did you show me your photo album?"

A moment, just long enough for him to blink, and then her answer slipped from her fine lips. "The past is unchangeable, whatever's happened has happened. Sometimes we have proof of the occurrences in our lives, like a journal or photographs, but for the most part it's only ourselves as witnesses. The things we've seen and done shape us. Remembering our lives can help root us, keep us grounded and without fear of floating away. Which is good. But Uncle Luke reminded me that 'holding the past in a headlock doesn't do any good'. Hold onto it, let it help you move forward, but it shouldn't weigh you down and strangle you." Her explanation was long winded and partially mumbled, but Steve caught every word of it. "I took every science course they offered in high school, because I thought I would do that. But I became a photographer. The past may shape us or nudge us in a certain direction, but it doesn't define us."

She faced him now, and for a second all he could read from the letters of her expression was understanding. Then other emotions jumble with the first and all he could do to try and clear the confusion was ask, "Why?"

"Why am I telling you this?"

_Why are you telling me this? Why do you frown like that for me? Why do you care more than the team I fight with? Why do you mean so much to me?_

He nodded.

"I don't know what happened on your mission, and I won't ask. What's done is done so loosen your hold on it, Steve."

She handed him a bowl of potatoes and made clear without saying a thing what she wanted him to do with them. It seemed she'd hit her word limit for now. The potatoes were quickly but thoroughly washed, and then diced into perfect cubes.

Was he letting the past strangle him? God only knew how many times he looked at something and compared it to before. The weight of being out of place was heavier since the start of that mission, and then learning that his best friend was not only alive but was also a programmed killer had made everything all the more complicated. The past wasn't the only thing clawing at his mind, but it certainly tore the most painful wounds.

The past had shaped him, there was no denying that, and though it seemingly misled him in this world of technology and separation, the things he'd experienced were – in a strange roundabout way – showing him how to move forward.

"You're really precise about that," Mel commented as she took the cutting board and slid the potato cubes into a pot.

"Thanks… I think." A wave of nostalgia crashed over him, making him close his eyes in order to keep upright. Instead of forcing it away as he normally did when he was in _this _mood, he breathed deeply and began a story. "My mother made a lot of things with potatoes, since they we affordable and my parents both grew up in Ireland. I don't remember much about my father, but I do remember him cutting them into different shapes. Cubes, pyramids, stars, we made a game of who could made the most identical figures from the potatoes my mother left us with. I tried doing cats once, but gave up when they looked more like fish."

His mother hadn't stopped them when they fooled around with the food, loving the smiles and laughs it got out of the two. The stew always ended up with oddly shaped potato chunks, and sometimes other vegetables got pulled into the game, but as his mother had said, "Play with your food as much as you want, so long as you eat it." Of course at the dinner table any silliness with the things on his plate was immediately chastised.

"Maman and Viv were always the ones cooking, while I went along with my dad and my brothers to go fishing or hunting. Gender roles aren't very strict in the family, but generally it's girls in the house and boys out doing the heavy lifting."

"Then there's you," Steve smirked.

Mel smiled too. "I liked cooking and baking and all that well enough, but I loved hanging out with the twin terrors even more. Plus Vivien was always better at making food stuff than me."

Looking at the mix of vegetables, chicken, and spices stewing in the pot and smelling its pleasant aroma that made his mouth water, Steve wondered how good Vivien was at cooking.

"I'm a terrible shot with a gun." She tapped her glasses, specifying the reason for her deficiency. "But traps I could do." Steve imagined a younger Mel, out in the forest he remembered from his brief visit to the country house, setting up gigantic bear traps with metal jaws of death… And there was his inner cartoonist again.

"What did you do with the game?"

"Skinned and gutted them before going back to the house, and then usually handing over the carcases to the kitchen. Have you ever done any hunting?"

"Grew up in the city, so aside from tracking down pesky apartment rats, there wasn't much predator and prey going on." Then he'd gone overseas and had eliminated Nazis and HYDRA agents, which was its own sick form of hunting. "A lot of the time, fighting in the war, we had to find our own food, since provisions could only get us so far. Bucky was our sniper, so he usually brought in the meat. Jacques cooked though, and he could do wonders over a campfire with only salt and dirt." If Mel was surprised that he'd said something about his time fighting, she made no mention, and continued on without a pause.

The rest of their night was quiet, the stew brought to the living room as Mel put on The Fellowship of the Ring. Steve had read The Hobbit when it first came out, and then soon after being unthawed he'd read The Lord of the Rings along with most of Tolkien's other work.

Silence blanketed them, and while the chances of it becoming awkward were high, it never did and was simply reassuring to both.

The soldier wasn't paying much attention to the movie, his thoughts thinking heavily on his friend's words, replaying and re-examining. They held truth and logic, but acting on it was much harder than merely pondering it.

"You don't have an accent." The remark was random and so out of the blue, it took Steve a second to process it.  
"What?"  
"Brooklyn or otherwise, no accent. Gran said it was still there though."  
"Oh. Well, I used to talk with one, but then as Captain America the plaything of the war bonds campaign and propaganda, the show directors told me to tone down the accent while on stage, and I just got into the habit of talking like this."

After endless hours spent with Horrid Harry during his war bond tour, his dialect coach had finally gotten him to speak without the heavy accent he'd grown up with. Though he'd mourned the need to change even the way he spoke in order to help his country, he had at least been grateful for the fact that the show girls whose first language wasn't English finally understood him.

Mel had pulled out a futon for him to sleep on, along with a pillow and woolen blanket. The blanket draped over the two of them as they sat on the bed. The light had been turned off and the only illumination came from the television. Beside him, Mel had her knees brought up to her chest and chin resting upon them. They were back to the couple inches apart, although Steve would have liked the physical contact with another person.

Over the climax of the movie, Steve could hear explosions off in the distance. He turned toward the window and saw fireworks going off. Bright colours and complicated patterns littered the sky, peppering the black velvet with streaks of vividness.

"Happy New Year, Mel." Her brow furrowed. "It's twelve-oh-four." Her forehead relaxed and her lips curved into a smile.

"Happy New Year, Steve."

Shifting to bridge the gap, Mel leaned her head against his shoulder and pulled her half of the blanket tighter around her. Looking down and to the side, he saw her soft smile and felt his own mouth do the same. For the first time in days, Steve was truly warm.

Half his mind may have still been with Bucky and the mission and all the mess that he struggled with, but at least there was someone here for him. His first New Year in the time that he wasn't born into, and it wasn't all that bad.

* * *

A/N: Need to to biology homework. And chemistry homework. And geography. And math. And shower...  
Not checked for spelling/grammar so sorry about any mistakes.


	9. A Familiar Hand

A faintly muffled thumping roused Mel from her murky sleep, causing her to prop herself up on her elbows in a sleepy attempt to be alert. Again she heard the thumping sound, but as her senses slowly came back to her, it seemed more erratic than rhythmic and with it she could hear groaning.

Mel flew out of bed, goose bumps rising on her legs as skin met chilled air, and nearly tripping over the heavy comforter and falling to the ground in her haste to scramble over an empty camera bag. It had been a while since she'd had to do this, get up during the night, but from experience she knew these sorts of things shouldn't simply be left to their own.

On her futon that was just long enough for his tall frame, Steve had thrown off the blanket and was thrashing around, arms flailing and legs moving in a way that Mel couldn't discern. Turning on a lamp and setting it to the softest light, she could see the sweat beading the soldier's forehead, and when his mouth wasn't open in a moan or heaving breath his jaw was clenched tight.

Mel understood nightmares, she wasn't exempt from them, but more importantly she knew how to deal with other people's nightmares. Whether it was her cousin afraid of the monster in his closet or her brother before he'd had his wife to comfort him after night terrors once he'd come back from a tour, Mel had a plan.

Except now she didn't. Her cousin she'd known to give him his teddy, and Ren liked to pile in with the rest of the siblings, or in absence of that, just staying up and watching old Get Smart episodes until sleep was a viable and inevitable option. Clem hadn't been too prone to nightmares (he usually comforted her), but on occasion it was cuddling and listening to audio books for the rest of the night.

Steve however, she had never had to do this for. She hadn't simply thought that he'd come out of World War II without a scratch, but she had assumed that he was getting help. The other times they'd shared a room had been peaceful and his rest had been undisturbed, which would have proved her theory, except that that clearly wasn't the case now.

There were things she knew would calm him while awake; music, giving him something to do, sitting or just being close to him. But asleep was a completely different matter. Mel didn't want to do anything that would harm either of them, but leaving his twisting figure to the mercy of his mind… No, she thought as she watched his face contort into an expression of pain and torment, she couldn't do that.

Edging closer to him and stopping just out of reach of his floundering arms, she sat cross-legged and let out a breath. "Steve," she tried even if she didn't think that would be enough. It wasn't, and he continued struggling against imagined enemies, probably without ever hearing her. Mel gathered up the blanket that had been pushed away and folded it up into a neat pile. Steve was cold she guessed – he was always cold – and she would have liked to place the blanket back on him, but with his tossing and turning that wouldn't last long.

Her mother had taught her about nightmares, specifically ones brought on by PTSD. All of the Bleu children learned about night terrors and what to do if someone was having one. While Mel was nowhere near as good as her mother when it came to comforting (whether of nightmares or of anything else), Mel had picked up a few things and could at least help out her family when it was needed. She knew not to wake someone with a nightmare of this sort outright or roughly. Her mother's approach was to ease the person awake and then take care of the panicked aftershock without risk of injury to either person. Mel on the other hand usually calmed the person (in the past it had normally been Ren, her father, Uncle Luke, or Michael) without waking them and let them sleep. If they woke up then that was fine, but by that point it was unlikely that they would come up swinging.

A thought she'd previously dismissed came back to her, and she got up and found her iPod, sticking it into the dock and scrolling through the ever extending list of artists and albums. Her father liked it when her mother hummed or sang softly, so perhaps some quiet swing would help Steve. Playing it loudly wouldn't help, as she imagined his mind being assaulted by something from the past would make him think he was there, and it would be a cruel realization to find himself in the twenty-first century.

She picked an artist at random, not caring if it was Sammy Davis Jr or Frank Sinatra, and played it just loud enough to be comfortable white noise. Trombones and saxophones came to life and the swinging tunes of the vocalist seemed to calm both of them.

Mel wasn't afraid –truly afraid – of much anything. Nor was she deeply disturbed or deeply distressed by things easily. It was a bit of a pride point with her (not that she shouted it from the rooftops) but to herself she would smugly admit that it took more than a spider on the wall or a thief in a dark alley to shake her. She'd seen a lot in her life, a lot more than most would given her age. Steve was the same she realized, he was after all only twenty-five without his time frozen.

Witnessing the underbelly of the world… it had changed her. One of the biggest was a newfound fearlessness (sometimes she had to acknowledge that it was stubbornness or stupidity though). As a teen she'd jumped at random noises and stayed on the ground when others were climbing trees for fear of falling. Now it took a lot more to get to her.

Steve suffering at the hands of his own mind made the cut. It wasn't right seeing him like this because of his memories, this man who was good for the sake of good and would give his life to protect millions. He didn't deserve to endure this. No one did, really, but like she'd felt with her family, his nightmares made her insides twist uneasily.

Steve muttered things like 'Bucky' and 'Hydra' and other mumblings that she didn't understand; each with a fervent intent that told her that what he was seeing was still very real. But his limbs weren't flying about anymore and he was still enough for her to cover him with the blanket. In actuality it was a quilt, one her grandmothers had made for her years ago. She rarely pulled it out nowadays, but to her its warmth went deeper than simply skin deep. Each square patch sewn over the wool underside came from a part of her family – every section of them. It had been this quilt that pulled her farthest from her depression, and often she wondered how she would have gone on without her family's support.

Mel hoped that it could be as helpful to Steve as well.

Deciding that the trumpets were too loud, she picked out another, gentler song. At the top of the dimly lit screen, she saw that it was three forty-two in the morning. Mel sighed, because she knew she wouldn't just leave Steve while his brow was still creased and his breaths still ragged, if at least calmer.

On the table she saw a manila folder, open and whose contents were probably of a classified nature. Two papers were visible to her, one a profile of some sort, and the other written out in perfect handwriting. Though she knew that she shouldn't, she leaned closer and read them.

When she finished she knew she most definitely should not have read them. The profile had been of the Winter Soldier, detailing who he was, what he was, and what he could do. The other paper had been Steve's mission report, and while it was only the beginning and she was sure there were other pages (she may have lifted up that sheet to glance under – she hadn't read anything), she knew enough to know that the Winter Soldier was Steve's long since thought dead best friend, James 'Bucky' Barnes. Life just wasn't fair to Steve, she thought sadly.

Her attention was brought back to the soldier and she closed the folder, and then turned to check on him. "Ice… Not again…" Steve mumbled in whispered terror, loud enough for her to make out the words this time. The music was helping, but not enough it seemed. Pushing herself up, Mel shuffled back to her room and scooped up the comforter, wondering if it would make him too hot.

Back with Steve (nearly tripping on a trailing corner), Mel gently pulled it over him, smiling slightly when he burrowed deeper into it after a minute. She tucked his hand in, which had hung over the side and rested on the floor, back under the covers.

A hand, larger than hers and one she was becoming increasingly familiar with, latched onto her wrist before she could pull it back from beneath the blankets. Twisting her hand with relative ease, she set their palms together when she recognized that his action wasn't violent in any way.

"Did I wake you?" Steve's voice was slurred with sleep and his face was partially pressed into the pillow, one eye blearily looking at her in the dim light.

"No," she lied. "I was getting water. Go back to sleep."

Perhaps he hadn't heard, or maybe he didn't believe her, but he seemed to ignore the excuse and mumbled, "'m sorry."

"Dormir, mon grand," was her murmured reply.

For a moment Mel thought he would get up, the way he shifted under the blankets. But then the last of the tension in his body drained away as he drifted off, finally relaxing, although his hand around hers only strengthened its grasp. Mel didn't have the heart to pull away.

. . .

He was warm when he woke again, wrapped in a soft blanket, but its weight was heavier than when he'd fallen asleep. Steve didn't mind, simply snuggled further into the warmness and breathed in deeply through his nose. It smelled like Mel – lilac and a trace of sandalwood. He wanted to sleep more, but through his closed eyelids he could feel the morning sun, and knew it was time to get up.

When his eyes opened, the first thing he noticed was Mel's comforter on him, which led him to wonder what Mel was sleeping under, and then led him to notice the hand he was holding.

Mel's hand.

Her top half rested on a cushion, her pale legs curling upward but remaining on the floor. She slept serenely, the expanding and contracting of her chest even with each steady breath. His enhanced hearing picked up on the faintest of snoring, quiet enough that most people wouldn't have noticed. Her arm was stretched out to keep in contact with his, pulling her partially onto her front.

The first day of the year brought a soft light, filling the room and cascading over the sleeping figure, her hair splayed around her in beautiful randomness. What was the cliché, everyone looks younger asleep? Steve didn't believe it; he knew that it didn't apply to everyone. Mel didn't look younger, he'd seen pictures of that, but there was a radiance from her that lessened the invisible scars of the past.

He wondered why she was sleeping on the floor instead of her bed. And it couldn't be warm sleeping in shorts. Slowly, recollections of his nightmare came back to him, and though his brief time awake was fuzzy, he could remember her presence near him as his dream faded.

She'd been there for him, he thought astounded. Steve knew his nightmares were violent. More often than not he woke on the ground, finding the surrounding area in a disarray of broken objects and belongings sent askew. And he screamed. Bruce had been unfortunate enough to pass by his room at the tower once and was able to hear his yells and cries. Their rooms were supposed to be sound proof. It had been an uncomfortable breakfast as Bruce lectured him about talking to someone and post-traumatic stress disorder (a fancy name for shell shock and battle fatigue, he'd learned, although Bruce had insisted that it was different. Steve couldn't really tell) and that it wasn't anything to be ashamed of.

But Steve _had_ been talking to someone. Sort of. Until the Avengers Initiative he went to regular appointments with a SHIELD psych. The sessions hadn't done much except make him feel angry and helpless, and once the situation with the Chitauri had thrown his schedule out of whack, he just stopped going. The sessions had been regularly ending in broken personal effects anyway.

He sat up, releasing Mel's hand. There was no way that she was comfortable lying there. Deciding on a course of action, he carefully picked her up and switched places with her, so that she was on the futon and he sat on the floor. Her skin was warm, as he slid his hand out from under the crook of her knees. When he pulled the covers up to her chin, he felt himself smile in satisfaction as she continued to sleep undisturbed. Hair fell over her face, blowing outward with each breath and he pushed it back with his finger tips.

With the chocolate locks out of the way, he could now see that her eyes were open. Damn.

"Morning," he smiled, a bit disappointed that she'd woken, but at least now he could ask what she wanted for breakfast.

"You're bleeding."

He blinked. "What?" Before he could process her words any more, she was sitting up and feeling his shoulder, the same one that had been shot. She seemed surprised when he didn't twitch or flinch. It was sore (all of him was), but he was certain that the flesh had closed up already. "I'm fine."

"Were there stitches?"

"No, I was already healing fine by the time I got to medical, so just bandages." He looked down to where she was still prodding. A dark stain of red met his eyes. "Must have torn it open last night," he mumbled.

Mel frowned at him, and he found that he didn't like the disapproving look. Her finger came up and poked at his jaw, and he grabbed hold of her finger when it made to poke his cheek. "What are you doing?"

"They're old, the bruises. Not fresh."  
"I heal fast," he explained, and then in a more teasing tone, "We've been over this."

"And your shoulder?"

"All better, I promise." Mel nodded and smiled a little at him.

Her finger slipped from his grasp and her hands were brought into her lap. "What do you say to starting off the New Year with pancakes instead of muffins or bagels?"

"I say that that's a spectacular idea."

With only a minor flour fight, a misplacement of blueberries, and Steve's impatience with the smell of food so close, they managed to make enough edible pancakes to feed both their hungry stomachs.

. . .

"Thank you for breakfast, and letting me stay over and…" _helping me with my nightmare, and being there for me, and keeping me grounded_. Steve looked down at Mel, his back to the door as he got ready to leave. He spilled his jacket on, careful not to smack his hands on the walls of the narrow hall.

Mel handed him a container of extra pancakes and replied, "Don't worry about it." And in that answer he also heard her acknowledgement of what he'd left unsaid. She was still in her pajamas whilst he'd changed into clean clothes from his duffel bag. "Plus, you're better at pancake flipping than I am," the she added with a grin.

"Always a pleasure, Ma'am," he teased, a lazy salute marking the statement. Again he noted her diminutive height and felt the urge to pat her on the head, though he suspected that she wouldn't appreciate the gesture.

With a kind smile she said, "Try and rest." And oddly enough, he thought he just might.

. . .

Steve had gone to the gym as his first task of the day, feeling the need to let out some steam, but compared to most of his sessions it was far more laid back. The punching bag swayed and shuddered under the force of his hits, but not once did it risk breaking the chain or flying off the hook. As he took a break to rehydrate, he debated whether or not to continue, settling on following Mel's advice and let himself rest. After a quick shower and stop to the kitchen where he ate some of the leftover pancakes, Steve set off to find his team. There hadn't been anyone in the gym or kitchen, and the usual common spaces were void of life aside from Ms Potts' plants. Mentally smacking himself on the forehead, Steve realized he could simply ask JARVIS, but by that point he heard voices from the upper penthouse, where a small library of sorts was situated.

A rolled up magazine was hurled at him as he made it up the stairs to source of Bruce and Tony's voices.

"Cap, catch," Tony warned belatedly the moment Steve caught the projectile. "Look what came in this morning!"

Taking a seat in the only available spot, a squishy high back chair, Steve unrolled the magazine and saw his teammates' faces on the cover. For a moment confusion clouded his thoughts, but then he remembered the photo shoot and deduced that this was the result.

They stood, as if ready to march into battle, lined up with Captain America and Iron Man in the centre, Thor and Doctor Banner flanking them, and then Hawkeye and Black Widow on the ends. Each was partially hidden in shadow, obscuring the face enough to give a sense of anonymity to those without a mask. Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor were lit well, showing the familiar personas that were more public than that of the scientist and the spies.

Steve didn't remember taking a photo with the rest like this, not with all of them (minus Bruce) in full armor. He supposed that Mel had spliced together some images like she'd shown him once.

The magazine cover read in bolded letters 'Who Are Our Heroes?'

"We've got six entire pages in there," Tony said, and though Steve's eyes were on the glossy paper in his hands, he didn't need to look in order to know Tony was smirking. Flipping past a couple ads and an article about market value of maple syrup going up due to climate change, he found a two page long article about the Avengers, their role in the Chitauri attack, and their presence thereafter. Reading the article, he was pleasantly surprised at the minimal bias it was written with. The majority of the time people were either singing their praises or calling the Avengers the scum of the Earth.

Afterwards was a page on Tony Stark, Iron man. A brief history of his life since childhood was given (which still took up a good third of the page) and then details on his involvement with the Avengers. Three photos of Tony were placed on the page. At the bottom was Iron Man, repulsors aimed at the camera and ready to fire. In the middle a photo of Tony with his armor on except for the helmet and making the peace sign with two clunky fingers, as if he weren't wearing a weaponized metal encasing. Placed at the top of the page, the photo showed Tony Stark in a business suit, sitting on a stool and looking oddly thoughtful. Not that the man couldn't have contemplative moments, but to see it printed was another thing and proved that Tony wasn't exactly the man he lead most to believe.

Thor's page was similar, fully battle ready at the bottom, civilian clothing at the top. The alien (Steve still couldn't quite bring himself to call his teammate a god) looked regal with his hammer, cape, and helmet, but the top photo depicted a man like any other.

"So," Tony began almost hesitantly, which immediately caught Steve's attention. It was never a good thing when Tony Stark sounded uneasy. "Your last mission… You alright?"

"Yeah, wounds are almost completely healed and I managed to get a good night's rest."

"I think he means more in your head," Bruce said putting down his book. The gentle scientist looked worried, and for what Steve couldn't place. "We know what happened during your mission."

His eyes must have widened because Tony quickly scrambled to explain. "You came home looking like a used stress ball and the assassins two were being all hush hush about the whole affair and Bruce and I got worried so we hacked the mission file."

"_He_ hacked the file, although I didn't stop him so I suppose I'm at fault as well…"

"Umm…" he stalled, taken aback by the less than snarky expression from Tony and the downright guilty look from Bruce. "I'm all right."

He was doing pretty well, at least he thought so. He'd tried not to think too much on it for the moment, but perhaps that wasn't right of him– to try and push thoughts of his best friend from his mind. To push away the ice blue eyes that had once sparkled with mischief and life. Not a flash of familiarity had entered his old friend's face as they'd fought; a notion which tore Steve apart from the inside. For a moment he veered toward despair, but Mel's words from the night before echoed through his head. He knew he couldn't quite do it all the way, but a small step in the right direction now he thought he could manage.

"I'm mostly alright," he amended, the faint smile on his lips more for his teammates' benefit than an actual reaction of happiness. Were he being truthful he would have said _sort of alright_, but he was only willing to show so much of his weakness to the men he was supposed to lead.

"Steve, if you ever need to talk to someone," Bruce gave a pointed look and though Steve would never actually take the offer, he nodded anyway. Steve knew that if he were to unload his thoughts on anyone, she'd listen to him and then talk to him based on all the things he hadn't said.

Often he wondered how she could read him so well, and if it applied to others. Mel admitted that she'd done quite a bit of people watching over the years, and along with being the quiet one generally overlooked, she had a rather good vantage point for observing people's different tells. "But then again I haven't known you too long, so I shouldn't be able to know so much about you." Then she'd reasoned that they spend a lot of time together, and she'd simply grown used to his particular quirks and tells.

Steve liked the idea of someone knowing him as well as Mel did. Once upon a time another had known him so well–

"Remind me so send our dear photographer something expensive later," Tony said offhandedly, knowing that JARVIS would take note and do exactly that.

Wait, why was Tony sending Mel a present? "What for?"

Tony, who was sitting on the couch next to him, leaned over and turned the page of the magazine. Captain America, sans cowl, filled a whole page; a head and shoulders portrait. His eyes were downcast and his expression was serious. But what stood out was the shadow and lighting of it. "The other three are like that too. You've still got your secret identities as, you know, secrets. I know how iffy you four were about the big reveal."

They had been, especially Bruce who didn't really want Bruce Banner connected to the Hulk, at least revealed to general media. Clint and Natasha were more used to undercover scenes, and announcing who they were to the world wasn't their way. Then there was Steve, who by all reason should have had his identity spilled from the start. I had been during the war, but it seemed SHIELD had other things planned for him.

"Any idea what you'll get her?"

"Start with replacing the equipment we broke while at the studio, but from there…" Bruce suggested. "Tickets to a hockey game?"

"Let's Google her!" Both Steve and Bruce blinked. "Come on, it's not that weird. Maybe she has a photography blog or something."

Part of Steve told him to protest, another told him to sit back and just let Tony do his thing. "Tony, are you sure–"

"Relax, gramps. I'm not hacking government files or anything; just a simple search in a public search engine." A holographic screen emerged, screens that Steve learned could appear almost anywhere in the tower. He recognized the Google homepage and noted the New Year's doodle. "Search: Tintype Photo Studio. New York City. Second link."

A blink later the homepage for the studio's website appeared.

_Tintype Photo Studio  
Photography For Every Occasion_

"Enter 'Photographers' page." There were two photos here, one of Jack Daniels (he understood now why Tony cracked up at the mention of Mr Daniels) and the other of Melinda Bleu. While both were cited as Tintype photographers, Mel was listed as the primary photographer. Daniels did more of the setup and studio managing. "Blah blah blah… Former National Geographic photographer, traveled, yada yada, published in various newspapers and magazines, more stuff that doesn't mean anything and… Wow."

Steve had been letting Tony read over the description, but looked to the screen at the man's bland exclamation of surprise. "A Pulitzer Prize in the feature photography section," he read, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline. Mel had never mentioned _that_ particular detail. He'd be sure to find a way to bring it up sometime.

A moment of shared silence before: "You do realize what a Pulitzer is, right Cappie? 'Cause you need to be quite impressed and–"

"Stark, the Pulitzer Prize thing started before I was born." That effectively stopped Tony's mouth from running off, and put a bit of a shocked look on the man's face. This seemed to be happening often today. Steve wasn't about to mention that the prize had only started a couple years before his birth. "But photography only started as a category in '42."

"Well, now there are two sections for it: breaking news and feature."

A spark of curiosity lit up in Steve. "Could you look up the photo that won her the prize?"

"Search: Melinda Bleu, Pulitzer Prize photography. Eliminate fakes. Perfect, the actual website."

The photo had been taken in May of 2006, according to the caption. The image showed a village surrounded by trees and villagers going about their business as usual. The main focus however wasn't the village; it was the fuming volcano in the background which extended into the midfield. In fact, it seemed that the village was _on_ the volcano itself. The area was tropical, as deep green trees covered the sides and the people were most definitely Asian.

"It's a photo-essay, so it's the ensemble of photos that earned Miss Bleu the prize in 2007," Bruce announced to no one in particular.

The series was made up of twenty photographs, each depicting different stages of a volcanic eruption. The explosion of lava and fire wasn't how Steve thought it was supposed to be. Rather than a single fiery explosion of red and orange, lava spilled from the crater at the top as grey smoke clouded the air above it. The event lasted over a week, Bruce informed them, most of the moth really. Through the images and the captions beneath them, they learned more specifically that this was Mount Merapi, a volcano in Indonesia. Local residents near the volcano were told to evacuate over the course of the week and after, although some remained, fearing theft of their livestock and crops.

A photo that Tony left at longer was that of a villager up in an unsteady tree to escape the burning ground below him, chickens and goats already merely charred carcases. The tree was leaning precariously on another and it was clear the man would fall to his death or suffer from intense burning.

The volcano's activity calmed as the days went by and villagers were seen returning to what was left of their homes, ready to rebuild or completely restart. Nearing the end of the month, destruction hit again in the form of a 6.3 magnitude earthquake. The same villagers who had just endured the loss of their livelihoods now lay either in complete ruin or in death. The remaining four photographs showed the bleak reality of natural disaster.

An image of a child standing by rubble covering the body of another child– a man with blood covering the entire front of his shirt and dirty bandages wrapped around his leg– two brothers trying to clean the body of their mother. The photos were graphic and taken in shocking colour which brought out the devastation in the man's eyes and the flare of the flames consuming everything around.

Steve looked at the picture, trying to imagine Mel behind a camera and standing amidst the destruction. How had she felt seeing all this first hand? Steve was no stranger to human suffering, but Mel was a civilian who should have no claim on the knowledge of pain of this sort. He'd gone to war back in the 40s so that those back home wouldn't have to witness any sort of terribleness, yet still…

He knew Mel well enough to know that she was no damsel in distress, but neither was she a soldier who was trained to stomach the sight of a mutilated corpse. But hadn't Steve started out just like Mel, a simple civilian? That kid from Brooklyn may have gotten into plenty of fights in the nooks and crannies of the city, but that was nothing to a battlefield or war. Steve had learned to deal with the smell of blood and partially desensitized himself to the pained cries of injured men over time. Mel had spent years as a photographer probably encountering such mayhem often enough to just _get used to it_ to some extent.

Was that what Ren and Tristan were talking about at Christmas?

"_She seems less depressed._"

"_You're bringing her back to us._"

There was no way someone walked away from seeing those things without changing somehow, he knew from experience. Though admittedly his experiences were more than a bit unusual. Mel wasn't broken or messed up like he was though, at least Steve didn't see that. If anything Mel was strong enough for him to lean on as he worked through his issues.

Mel was a mystery, one that he hadn't known her to be, and perhaps there was something under the surface that should be investigated.

* * *

A/N: Very long wait time, I know. Sorry. Mostly homework, life, and teenage angst getting to me. I kind of just hate second semester after February. I apologize for any spelling/grammar errors in this chapter. I wanted to get this chapter out due to guilt over not updating in.. two months? Something like that or close to. This chapter was originally much longer and and I decided to split it once it got to ~9000 words. And if you ever have time you should check out the Pulitzer website and take a look at the photography winners, some of them are amazingly heart wrenching.


End file.
